29 November 2009

I have not written a "rambling" in many, many years.  Corporate life has kept me from it, immune from feeling too much.  I regret that immunity in some ways and not in others, and despite the year just lived, 2009 is not amongst my regrets.

For I did feel love, intense and deep love; I painted and at one point, I may have even pondered writing poetry.  In hindsight, that pondering should have been my trigger.  If love were truly love, I would not have pondered - I simply would have done it.  She, however, did not encourage that liberty.

Perhaps harshly voiced but in real terms, I allowed myself to be a backup whore this year.  Don’t get me wrong – I was a whore to one, not a whore to many.  I’m not sure how it happened.

Initially, it began in the guise of kindred spirits, and then in the guise of love, and boy oh boy, did I fall like a teenage lad.  It goes to show that one is never too old to be a victim, and I of all people, despise that word.

The affair was an odd thing.  She made grandiose claims of love throughout, and then inserted exemption clauses to compensate for baggage accumulated along the way; the baggage of parents, of children, of former loves.  And when one is further along that journey, one makes allowances for such things.

Sometimes one is drawn into such a web, blinded by that baggage and forgiving of it all, and no doubt hoping they can fix it; too accepting to see that the baggage is merely a tool, perhaps even an unintentional tool, to manipulate one’s prey.  But a tool once considered then called upon, by nature is a tool of intent.

In short, she wanted everything from me, as long as it cost her nothing in return.  If my smile was not correct, or if an action fell short of expectations, I had to explain, but to ask her for that same equality was an insult to her freedom.  Looking back, it riled me no end.

In truth, I was nothing more than backup.  Backup should she fail to find anything better during the freedoms she demanded.  A Sunday shag should she fail to find another boy the night before.  A fallback fuck with no promise of tomorrow, with less affection afterward than one would show a dog.  Backup should she fail to feel enough love in her baggage-intensive life, to which I was denied inclusion, acknowledgement, or affection.

She arranged her life and mind that I could be as nil, and somehow, I allowed this silly thing to happen.

But sometimes I would rally against her actions.  I would threaten to pull away, and out would come the baggage again, and tears – an abundance of tears so strong that one’s resolve would weaken, and I would feel that I had failed her.  And once she was settled again, the status quo returned, without thought for me, for my feelings for which she claimed to consider all the time.

But as with all things, the cycle turns, and those with good intentions always triumph.  For she did not see that I too was independent - I did not need love, I merely wanted it.  My love has faded, not as much as I yet wish, but I am slowly accepting that I was a fool.  I can see her clearly now, for there are others who would have me, honestly, openly - even amongst her friends - and I am pulling myself free of the web she wove.

The irony is that I can write so freely here, on a site that finds a thousand hits a day, and I know that she will not be amongst those visitors.  For I am beneath her, my art is beneath her, although she would not say it to my face.  She thinks I am a fool.  Worse, she thinks I am not worthy of respect.

And that is all I wish to say, for I am not a bitter man, and nor am I one to become jaded by life.

To those who read this rambling, I offer a sentence or two of advice.

Love is wonderful - it truly is, and I will surely love again without this episode to taint me.  But make those who claim love, acknowledge you.  Acknowledgement is everything.  If they cannot do this simple thing - the most basic thing they should do, then it isn't love.