December 12, 1998
You won't like this one
I've been attracted to this one girl for the past few weeks. It was probably pretty obvious in my mailings. I was having difficulty in approaching her, but I finally did on Tuesday. If I had the power to control time, I would take that lunch conversation and never have myself talk to her again. I left that talk with the most sincerest hopeful happiness I have ever felt. We talked and laughed over common interest. Things were looking bright. Maybe she wouldn't be offended if I asked her on a date, there might be a chance of her saying yes. Then, I ate lunch with her again Thursday and Friday.
Now, I imagine myself with another friend talking to her over lunch. This friend had been around basically from the beginning of my "crush," if you will call it that. She asks me how it's going with the other girl, knowing that I had hope, particularly interested if I will ask her out at any point. I tell her no.
And I explain to her why. Those last two luncheons had shown me clearly there was no chance at all. My "crush" (god I hate the saccharine sound of that word) holds no interest in me, so I shouldn't ask. In fact, it just reiterates the general fact that I should never try to find someone.
If I find anything I like in another person, I construct around them a shell of what I would also like to see. Sure, such a person doesn't really exist, and I can accept imperfections. However, it always turns out there are several major issues I never realize that totally shatter my image of them, leaving only that first ideal I had actually noticed in them.
I did this with her. Before I ever really talked to her, I had hoped that she was a person who lived in her mind. When I feel the wind brush across my face, its crisp scent on my nose, the rustle of leaves sent lolly-gaggling by its force-- all these senses do not stir up my blood or churn my stomach in passion. Instead, I capture it in thought and somehow use it to understand. That's the best I can describe it, just understanding. I had hoped that she would be a person who could accompany me on my mental voyages.
Of course, this is ludicrous, for I value thought, but I desire a physical body to be near. How can I care for someone else when I'm like this? My mind is something personal that no one can ever really get at. I would be neglecting her. Yet, after that first lunch, I still thought she could be this way. To her, I could show her rocks that I believe screams, or in a grove of trees, the most perfect tree that is simply perfect because it is no longer a tree. I could share my "world."
And as it should be, she isn't. No one should spend their time wasting away on the lofty when the world is right here and now. I am at fault. I understand why she enjoys the feel of people dancing or a bike ride with others. Her focus is right on this world. She has every reason to, and I can name the positives if I wish, but I still despise those activities. I would rather just be somewhere and talking, thinking.
Sometimes I can make reasons for not liking these activities, like drinking. I don't drink. I know that I turn bitter and angry with alcohol, and it scares me if I ever go too far some night. I know the repercussions of such actions, having been there. Yet, many people feel a sense of rush and exhilarations when they scrap this limit and consequences. I just don't appreciate it, but I, having been there, just don't appreciate. I have a temper that I constantly struggle to keep, and I do fear at times the loss of control over my mind. Call me paranoid, but losing it scares the hell out of me. I don't drink for this reason and just don't see why others do. She does.
If she enjoys the world around her and its risks, it's her choice. If she finds some other guy to enjoy life with dancing and riding bikes, as she told me she possibly is, glory to her. Never stand in the way of someone else's happiness if the only person being hurt is yourself. It's my fault for the pain. I find happiness in my head, which is why the idealized reality of her works so well in me. Yet, the truth shatters this heavenly vision, and it is the truth that really matters, not heaven.
So, despite the consequences of my using her name, here it goes. Dear imaginary Alison, I really like you, but actual Alison, let's just say I understand why there are so many wise hermits who live alone atop mountains. Unless something miraculous or weird happens, you will never know about any of this.