SOME THOUGHTS ON LOVE
The first thing that comes to mind upon waking is there is no such thing. Romantic love is illusionary in nature, and it occurs when two people become deluded enough to consider the possibility that another human could care more about them than they do themselves, and still have strength of character and be worthy of affection themselves. If someone does care more about another than they do themselves the sentiment is birthed from desperation.
The second thought that came to mind is that I have experienced this sentiment, quite a number of times, but only in the most traumatic times of my life. Ã?Nuff said.
It's funny to watch two people that profess to love each other. In conversation neither one is really listening, they're just waiting for a pause so that they can relate similar experiences or spit out a non-sequiter. No one really wants to get to know someone else, but everyone wants to find someone that is interested enough in them to want to get to know them; genuine interest.
And as I type this there's an advertising banner that is disguised as a game over the top of my page, and since I am not playing, every 30 seconds or so a big red sign flashes across the banner that says "You lose!" Can I really lose if I choose not to play? It's all a fucking game anyway isn't it? Don't we all just want someone around when we're bored, lonely, and horny? Think of the number of "relationships" you have been in and compare that number to the number of times that you were actually, honestly, head over heels in love. I would have to bet that one number is a hell of a lot bigger than the other.
"I want to be loved for me." And who the hell is that? I personally believe that people are defined by their actions. I find it incredible that every time I have broken off a relationship because of infidelity or some other malice causing event the weepy eyed whore looks up at me and claims that if I don't want to work it out I never really loved her in the first place and was never committed to her. Doesn't anyone think that they have to account for their actions? And (especially with women) if you give them a second chance they will take that as a ticket for a third fourth and fifth. Better to be ruthless and end it, one strike and you're out. You already know how it will end anyway.
After the last one I had I decided that enough was enough. There's not even anything inspiring about it anymore. Every relationship will inevitably end with the same catastrophes. Why keep going through the cycles?
I miss you... I love you... I'll kill you...
I find more inspiration in past relationships that I have had. When you're an adolescent everything is new and uncharted. It's still fun. You can get worked up over it, you can believe you have found that special someone. You don't understand the underlying desperation, and love still seems like a pure emotion instead of a psychological anomaly birthed of a dozen different complexes. Now everyone my age hangs out at "the bar". That's the meat market that replaced High school and College. It's the reserve social setting. It's where you have to be to meet people, no if's and's or but's and if there are butts they're flabby with beer carbs anyway, or a regrettable pregnancy. I could wait until my generation grows out of that, but by that time the ones that aren't married yet will be the bottom of the barrel, too neurotic, too much strife. And they're all bitter and the desperation has become greater, different from adolescent desperation. People my age aren't desperate. They have it together. They're working toward something they believe in or they're losers and they finally know it. Self-awareness has set in, to whatever degree it ever will. They're too busy working and fucking to be desperate and crave genuine emotional response. They understand that to be happy in this life there are 100,000 things that need to be done before they're 30 and finding a mate is near the bottom of the list, fucking is number 3. Number 1 is making money and number 2 is spending it on impressive garbage. So let the monsters fuck. And much to their surprise when they reach 30 and their list has been accomplished, they'll find that they're not happy. That's when they get a divorce and search for something that's actually worth a damn, desperately, because they have to find love before they're 40 and their bodyÃ?s and looks begin to deteriorate. But they just play the same old game that they have always played, maybe it's different in the rest of the world but here in America people look for love the same way that they go shopping for that "perfect special something". But everyone's dressing up in the same clothes and doing the same things and going to the same places; marketing and product placement, and the perfect something they end up with is no better than the Jones's, and we all know that American's are perpetually malcontent unless they have something better than the next guy.
It's all fucking ridiculous and it makes me sick.
The last girl that I had here (whom I genuinely cared about to a certain degree) was so fucking transparent it hurt. I'm proud that I put my foot down after one strike, instead of waiting 7 years and then realizing that you actually hate this person you're living with and have been blinding yourself to the lying manipulative character that they actually possess. But realizing that you hate instead of love, and realizing that you have the strength to leave is like waking from a long dark nightmare, into blissful loneliness.
Everyone seems so possessed by the doctrine "get everything you can" that they will end up with nothing.
And sure, I understand loneliness, I know it and I won't lie about that. But I am happier now than I was living a lie. And I can get along with practically anybody; my livelihood depends upon it, in photography, sales, and the art world. I wouldn't sell any paintings if I couldn't do that. The fact that I'm one helluva' liar myself, and an expert salesman tells me that I understand most people better than they understand themselves, there's objective proof. But for all of the people that I can get along with the amount of people I actually like are a handful, the amount of people I respect is infinitely greater (many of whom are dead and I will never meet), and the amount of people I love is infinitely fewer.
I had a perfect relationship already. After 7 or 8 tries in my adolescence I got it right. I fell in love, she was the perfect object of my affection. She was taken with me and I with her. We spent a lot of time in silence hoping that the other would speak, but the joy of being in each other's presence outweighed the disappointment of silence, until there was no disappointment and silence became bliss. We made love, just once because I courted her for months, and wanted to make love to her just before I left for good. After that we wrote to each other for a year; a truck-load of love letters, and then I abruptly cut it off.
If I could have killed her and gotten away with it I would have. The only thing that held me back was fear of jail. Why? So that she would never change and I would lover her forever. Now she lives on only in my memory and she is the perfect idol. She will never get old and ugly, she will never have a bitter heart that hates me or births scorn for me because of my unadulterated adoration. I can worship her memory without fear of reproach, in perfect weakness, I can live with her in my mind without fear of expectation. We never argue about money, I share with her my successes and when I fail I do not see scorn in her eyes. The only way I ever saw her eyes was with love, kindness, and understanding, so that is how I remember them always. And I pretend that she is dead, I pretend that she begged me to kill her and I did, I pretend that she is a ghost watching over my shoulder. She is the angel that guides my hand when I paint, my companion, my immortal beloved. She is the reason I do everything I do, to make her proud.
I see no beauty in the transitory, and the only thing that makes death beautiful is if it has a purpose to cement immortality. Dali's death was beautiful because he would never paint again so his paintings became worth so much more, and LaVey's because it was the re-disbursement of the archetype into the ethers. I could go on, Jesus Christ and all that obvious beauty in death. But to see something that you love die without leaving behind an immortal tribute is never pleasing in any way. It makes the love that you experienced trite and disposable. It taints every experience that you once cherished. To hate someone that you loved... you may as well never have loved them at all. No memory will satisfy you when you wake up alone in the dark grinding your teeth and weeping in regret, it's all tainted by hate.
I already got it right, why keep trying?
