Saturday 6 March 2010

What's love like for a mad person?

My head is heavy tonight. Its been one of those four seasons in one week weeks. Highs, lows, brutal crashes. My heart now feels torn asunder but the drink will salve that pain like it salves so many others. The medication of the hypocritical.

Last night someone asked me if I loved someone I shouldn't and I answered truthfully. It really hurt. The reason for the hurt is simply a realisation of what I already knew though, manifest through other people's paranoia.

What is love is something for another post. Its an interesting topic debated by many philosophers and fools. I know its feeling and I think many people never do. I allow it to happen because it is a wonderful and painful feeling that makes life worth living and losing. Its part of life and misconstructed social norms mean the most beautiful of emotions is fettered by outmoded ideas of morality.

Love has a purpose. To bring two people together. To lay the foundations for a relationship. To unite two souls that once drifted endlessly alone through the ether.

It has no purpose to me other than the feeling itself. What point is there when when I fall in love I value that person and as soon as I do I know there's no point. When I fall in love I know that nothing can come of it because I know I'm not good for them. Only in moments of irrationality or mania do I make the mistake of having a relationship.

Some idiot counsellor would try and tell me that that's not true but I know better. I know I'm not a good person. I know that when I'm a mess I can be a real mess. I go through times where I lose the plot entirely, where my madness overtakes and there's nothing anyone can do. I have nothing to offer anyone in terms of the constructs of long term relationships. I fit few of the 'essential criteria' that people use to judge a person worth of a relationship. Self harm scars seem to only be attractive to a very small minority of people. And while I'm not suicidal now nor have been actively so in some time I live with the knowledge that I will take my own life.

My life is a total mess but its my life. I'd never inflict it on a person I love. I ask for no sympathy because I do ok without that hope. I survive and I thrive without that thing that others have and consider an essential part of existence, and I survive with a smile on my face.

But being accused by someone who barely knows me about something that is a silent burden for me is heartbreaking. Thank fuck for my true lover, my companion, my only friend in this sick twisted thing called life. Oh alcohol, I love you.

2 comments:

  1. Ah, the old alcohol lover. She looks sweet but the come down is a bitch.

    Sick and twisted life can be some days but it's also rich and beautiful and occasionally breathtaking.

    Really sorry to hear you're going through this. Anyone who's been there can only recite the old cliche to you time time time time. Sorry. Hang in there. I know it will get better.

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  2. Thank you.

    For the moment I'm in a dead space with my poor amour. It was as I expected: she doesn't feel the same way. Such is life.

    That's not a problem because I've lived these friendships so many times it seems more abnormal to me than a relationship of requited love. This is my comfort zone.

    And now I have to deal with the consequences of my actions. I hope that she can get over it and we can still be friends. I can deal with the emotions and they will fade. "Kiss the joy on the wing and don't fall as it falls" is something I've gotten better at putting into practice.

    Its funny. I wonder if she's thinking the same thing, or whether she's worried about why her friend asked me, or perhaps she's just going to stay away from me from now on. It'll be a sad loss to me if she does but I guess life's a cunt sometimes. She really brought a spark of joy into my life.

    The experience has cracked me somewhat though, about people. That'll heal again.

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About Me

We It comes in part from an appreciation that no one can truly sign their own work. Everything is many influences coming together to the one moment where a work exists. The other is a begrudging acceptance that my work was never my own. There is another consciousness or non-corporeal entity that helps and harms me in everything I do. I am not I because of this force or entity. I am "we"