To be quite honest, its not like I ever actually expected to fall in love with the girl. In fact, at first, I hated her. I despised her and she annoyed the shit out of me with her stubbornness and her fallacies and her bitterness towards men. I’m sure that I must have come off as shallow, arrogant, and foolishly “intellectual” to her at the same time. Slowly, we began to get to know each other. We learned from each other, a mutual respect was formed. At first I though she needed to smoke in order to paint. In fact, she needs to paint whenever it is she happens to be smoking. She paints all the time, sober or not. She just doesn’t see the use in letting creativity go to waste, sober or not. She doesn’t see this as the source for her inspiration, just that when she smokes she runs the risk of getting lazy and unmotivated, and thus enjoys the recreation while doing something productive.
And to be real honest here, its not that I know I’m in love with the girl. I mean, I know that it sure feels like love, or that, I’m desperately trying to convince and tell myself that its not love and that it is at the same time. I’ve never genuinely been in love with anyone before, so logically I do not know what it could be. However, this defies all logic. You can rationalize infatuation to the point of psycho-babble. Love slaps ration in the face and brings to light indescribable things that should not even be accurately called ‘emotions.’
“Beauteous, Beautiful…” O such words!
What shameful trite and clichéd words!
What worthless hollow callow words!
What Elizabeth Barret Browning words!
What Byron, John Donne, Lovelace words!
What wordy William Wordsworth words!
Give me Emily Dickinson any day!
I’ll take Poe over Thomas Gray!
I cannot accept things so bland!
Wrought by redundant poetic hand!
What things to put me fast asleep!
Used by jocks who think they’re deep!
Repetition to proceed to bore us!
Why don’t they use a damned Thesaurus?
For despicable words like “pale beauty!”
Seems unapt for “anemic scenery!”
To call a woman ‘beautiful!’
Is simply saying ‘viewable!’
Inane, empty, unidiomatic!
Most men say it automatic!
But all the poets who abused it!
Had someone in mind when they used it!
Another to apply new context!
To that previous unworthy syntax!
And that is why I derive no shame!
In applying it to your fine name!
I feel proud and almost dutiful!
To clepe you thus by ‘beautiful!’
F. Scott Fitzgerald had this to say, “When the first-rate author wants an exquisite heroine or a lovely morning, he finds that all the superlatives have been worn shoddy by his inferiors. It should be a rule that bad writers must start with plain heroines and ordinary mornings, and, if they are able, work up to something better.”
Of course, F. Scott Fitzgerald also said that using an exclamation point was like laughing at your own joke.
And to be painfully honest, it hurts. It hurts a hell of a lot more than a high school crush or an infatuation with that girl you could never have or the one that got away or the lust for some unreachable celebrity. It’s a constant pain that whenever she’s near you, you know you can’t have her. You don’t even want her to have you, because you know she’s going to be happier with somebody else and its not fair to unload your burdens of love and emotions onto her. You don’t want to hurt her by telling her how you feel when its not her fault and she cannot reciprocate because she’s happy with somebody else. You take joy in that, but it still hurts. It would hurt you to be with her and ruin her life with somebody else even more. If you love something, set it free, but be damned well aware that it isn’t coming back to you.
Above and beyond all that, I only fool myself into wondering if it might be infatuation. I ask those questions because it would be a lot easier to have this be a passing thing, but I know it isn’t. This isn’t an ‘I think I know,’ but an ‘I know.’ Just the same as I know how to breathe, I know that I love her. The doubts in my mind are but failing threads of the rational and therefore irrational theory of a fleeting crush. Yeah, it hurts, but at the same time, I like being in love. I like how I am in love and I like the person it makes me. Sure, it hurts. But the love that causes it makes that likeable, too.
I suppose I really just want it to be a crush, for her sake, because it’s not fair to her that I love her.
I was told by a friend to grab life by the horns, to go ahead and tell her how I feel because its not as if it could hurt anything. Ha! What does he know? The point is, he put a label and a classification on the ambiguous thing that was there. She and I are too good of friends to make something out of this now! We know each other too well! We’ve gone past that seething resentment to a mutual respect to a dear friendship to a closeness wherein our painful pasts have come out to say hello and eradicate any chance of something ever happening. I wasn’t aware of it until it was clear that it impeded this progress.
To be real honest, here, though, folks, I didn’t even know I was in love until somebody else put it in perspective for me. Sure, I loved her, right from the start, deep down, but I wasn’t in love with her until somebody pointed it out and said, “Jesus, man, you really love this girl.” For God’s sakes, it’s clear from my actions what the feelings are! Why did everybody else know it except me and her!?
Oh, how I long for this to be but some cursory sexual fantasy. If it were but that then I could get it out of head and out of heart, but no. You stalkers and puppy-love angst-ridden teenagers with your crushes and infatuations don’t know how fucking lucky you are to have it be all about sex. To look at a girl and fool yourself into thinking that you want to be with her because you love her when in actuality it’s all about some lecherous quivering orifice. I need to tell myself it’s a passing sexual fantasy, but then I think about her wit, and eyes, and how perfect she would be for me if only I were good enough to be that person that could deserve such love, and not just some dumb fuck. When I think of her, I don’t think of her pussy lips or her bosoms, I think of her smile, and how I could possible make her laugh when she’s depressed. I think of the way her hair shines chatoyant in the sun behind her or falls down into her eyes when she spins. I think of the cute upturned button nose with her cute black-framed glasses sliding down as she works on her paintings and looks up, over the rim of them, when somebody vies for her attention. I think of her art, her music, her history, her silly laugh. She is silly. She’s the reason that writer’s write music and poets compose poetry. Every fucking Beatles song I hear doesn’t just remind me of her, it fucking makes me think that it was written because Lennon/McCartney would somehow someday know how I was going to be feeling for her.
Luminescent yellow, halo’d, iridescent, gay
shining brown, orange, close and far away
smells fresh and due to new and purulent
forever instant, temporarily permanent
lighting up, contrasting, impacting deep
dreamily waking, alertfully falling asleep
lovingly is yours.
And honestly, people, none of this does her justice. All the clichés and idioms in the world say nothing that’s actually pounding outwards from the interior of my head. They say that you will only know true love when you thoroughly fail to put it accurately into words. Well, that’s the case here, and all of my attempts are but slaps in the face of what I’m truly feeling.
That pain I was talking about, it’s not even a true pain, you see, because there is so much joy in it. Being in love with her, pain or not, is its own reward, and nobody can take that away. Get stoned on more pot than you’ve ever consumed in your entire life, and listen to the best music in all the Earth, and on top of that all the joys and pleasures and tastes in the world do not amount to a fraction of it. There is no negativity when I’m with her, or when I’m thinking about her. There are no skinned knees in Kindergarten, embarrassing school photos, wet beds, turned down dates, sickness, disease, death, famine, or bad personal history. All there is, is goodness, and deep hued skies and crystal bodies of water, and golden light and birds and squirrels and children and smiling and luminescent green patches of grass and the smell of sweet memories forming and with it all most of all her.
Honestly? I don’t think about her all the time, but plenty enough to make me happy.
Which amounts to ‘too much.’