The Icarus line.
To spare myself future agony, I have sworn to never, ever get emotionally involved with anyone again without having made sure that I am at least 75 percent (make that 85) satisfied with the physical (note: not equivalent to sexual) aspects. Call me superficial if you want (who isn't?), but anything else is just too damn difficult and painful to be worth it. Having to inculcate desire is just so not the point, and having to practice..? Uhhh.
What I really want is this whirlwind thing where frivolous, whimsical sentiments such as love (lust? :x) at first sight and head over heels still exist, and OTT romantic gestures the likes of popping up unnannounced or roses in the mail somehow don't come across as being entirely cheesy or end up being met with the ever-present cynical twitch. Where conversation is easy, yet awkward all at the same time, and in the pit of your belly remains a near-constant fluttering beneath the distracting palpitations in your chest. Dressing-up for a simple dinner date takes close to two hours (more than half of which spent on primping your hair), and despite having spent the last five days together nearly 24/7 you just know you'll be counting the hours til you meet again 30 seconds after having said the last (and 37th) goodbye.
And at the end of the day, the curling up on a daggy sofa beneath a warm fleece afghan reminiscing about everything from the mundane to the controversial; of age-old euthanasiadebates arguments and the indescribable loss of A&W root beer and curly fries from our lives. I may be a surly, self-professed and approval-stamped cynic (and a serious commitment-phobe at that), but deep down inside I think everyone yearns for the perfect romance. And a girl can dream...
But maybe you're right. At the end of the day I don't want to, and I'll keep on finding reasons not to. Or come to the conclusion that I'm not looking for anything right now. Or perhaps, that I just cannot fathom opening my life so completely to someone after all this while of being blissfully happy with me myself and I. Maybe we'll finally see that denial is an anesthetic. A bittersweet aftertaste that lingers, long after it's gone.
***
Am currently reading The Story of O, and to go into detail here would be a bit too risque seeing as there are under-18s reading this blog (sorry, bro), but I will say that it left me squirming quite a bit in the library today, when I was supposed to be diligently researching the tabloid lowdown on Diana...
Stuff due Thursday and next Tuesday, and I can't start on the massive USA research paper (on Vietnam, by the way) without having completed the writeup for Thursday's meeting with Peter, which is absolutely annoying since everything of relevance to the lit-crit section is either on two-hour, or overnight loan. I do not have the time to shuttle to and fro to renew loans when everything is so time-constrained! (Which, really, is entirely my fault, but it's nice to be able to blame it on the shitty aspects of the Baillieu.) On the bright side, we've got a date with Diana Krall this Friday at the Palais Theatre. A much needed break from the shitload of work and emotional haemorrhage.
***
Yes, each new day in suburbia brings with it a new set of lies. The worst are the ones we tell ourselves before we fall asleep. We whisper them in the dark, telling ourselves we're happy. Or, that he's happy. That we can change. Or that he will change his mind. We persuade ourselves we can live with our sins. Or that we can live without him. Yes, each night before we fall asleep we lie to ourselves, in desperate, desperate hope that come morning, it will all be true.
To spare myself future agony, I have sworn to never, ever get emotionally involved with anyone again without having made sure that I am at least 75 percent (make that 85) satisfied with the physical (note: not equivalent to sexual) aspects. Call me superficial if you want (who isn't?), but anything else is just too damn difficult and painful to be worth it. Having to inculcate desire is just so not the point, and having to practice..? Uhhh.
What I really want is this whirlwind thing where frivolous, whimsical sentiments such as love (lust? :x) at first sight and head over heels still exist, and OTT romantic gestures the likes of popping up unnannounced or roses in the mail somehow don't come across as being entirely cheesy or end up being met with the ever-present cynical twitch. Where conversation is easy, yet awkward all at the same time, and in the pit of your belly remains a near-constant fluttering beneath the distracting palpitations in your chest. Dressing-up for a simple dinner date takes close to two hours (more than half of which spent on primping your hair), and despite having spent the last five days together nearly 24/7 you just know you'll be counting the hours til you meet again 30 seconds after having said the last (and 37th) goodbye.
And at the end of the day, the curling up on a daggy sofa beneath a warm fleece afghan reminiscing about everything from the mundane to the controversial; of age-old euthanasia
But maybe you're right. At the end of the day I don't want to, and I'll keep on finding reasons not to. Or come to the conclusion that I'm not looking for anything right now. Or perhaps, that I just cannot fathom opening my life so completely to someone after all this while of being blissfully happy with me myself and I. Maybe we'll finally see that denial is an anesthetic. A bittersweet aftertaste that lingers, long after it's gone.
***
Am currently reading The Story of O, and to go into detail here would be a bit too risque seeing as there are under-18s reading this blog (sorry, bro), but I will say that it left me squirming quite a bit in the library today, when I was supposed to be diligently researching the tabloid lowdown on Diana...
Stuff due Thursday and next Tuesday, and I can't start on the massive USA research paper (on Vietnam, by the way) without having completed the writeup for Thursday's meeting with Peter, which is absolutely annoying since everything of relevance to the lit-crit section is either on two-hour, or overnight loan. I do not have the time to shuttle to and fro to renew loans when everything is so time-constrained! (Which, really, is entirely my fault, but it's nice to be able to blame it on the shitty aspects of the Baillieu.) On the bright side, we've got a date with Diana Krall this Friday at the Palais Theatre. A much needed break from the shitload of work and emotional haemorrhage.
***
Yes, each new day in suburbia brings with it a new set of lies. The worst are the ones we tell ourselves before we fall asleep. We whisper them in the dark, telling ourselves we're happy. Or, that he's happy. That we can change. Or that he will change his mind. We persuade ourselves we can live with our sins. Or that we can live without him. Yes, each night before we fall asleep we lie to ourselves, in desperate, desperate hope that come morning, it will all be true.
thus spoke Noelle at 4/12/2005 12:16:00 AM
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