So there's a girl.
Of course there is.
I've moved on enough from Bronte to realize that infatuation is not quite the romantic ideal in 2013. Yet I still think there's something quite noble in unrequited love.
and an abstract concept of "the people" that "the people" are not capable of delivering upon?
In fact, it's not even love I;m feeling. I've learned, harshly, that a submarine needs an oxygen tank. And yet. There's a girl.
Actually, a corner of my mind for seasons now. A sometime-sharer of conversations.
A co-worker, though we never really work at the same time. Probably I am just a friend.
But I feel like I have kept my distance enough to not have quite blown it already (self-deception). She seems to value my company, but she is social. I am not. Imbalance.
She has been seeing someone else for almost a year now. I don't sense it will end soon, but I don't sense it will end in marriage, either. She's just the kind of girl who always has a boyfriend. Enough so that, should she come crying to me about a bad breakup with her current partner, well,
I would tell her to spend some time alone, to consider all the things she might have done had she not had to compromise, which
she would surely have done, had this not been the right relationship, which, in this fantasy, is true.
Obviously, to wait is pointless. There are other parasites on the corpse (which is really a more accurate way of expressing these things than something about fish, see) but there will also be a certain sense of disingenuousness about giving up:
The car you can afford.
The vacation to a neighboring town slightly less desolate
(instead of an island of cartoon-blue waters and palm trees so indifferent, they mock human desire).
I can't promise her anything. Devotion, yes, but she's beautiful enough, vibrant enough. Redolent of obtuse appraisals. A unique perspective, not just "quirky". Devotion is a penny.
I couldn't even say that it would work. It's just the frustration of not even having had the chance to find out.
A lottery ticket never to be scratched.
Ice cream melting in a dumpster behind a grocery store on a hot summer day.
Living well would be the best "revenge", but living well would also put me thousands of miles away. Not that I would hesitate. I would only hope that, should I ever board that plane to Barcelona, or Berlin, or Belarus, or Bosnia, or Bolivia, well, that her regret should equal mine.
To forget her is an act of self-preservation that creates a self not worth preserving.
I once described the rain as "a slow, silent paroxysm of the clouds". That was another girl.
Love doesn't solve problems, it legitimizes them.