You know what I would prefer?
Would you perhaps prefer to save your most cringe-inducing confessions for a private journal, instead of plastering them on the unforgiving coastal rockface of the internet where, one day, when you least expect it and perhaps have more to lose, they could be dredged up and aired out in front of a cold and harshly judging audience?
No, I’d prefer it if it turned out Polaris was in love with me. And I would prefer it if it turned out I was in love with him. Not the ideal version of him that exists in my imagination, but the actual person that I can’t claim to know. And, I promise, it’s not because I’ve been watching fucking Christmas rom-coms. Wait, it’s not, is it?
I have long become comfortable with it not happening, of course.
I am not especially concerned with the packaging my future fucking life partner is wrapped within. They certainly don’t have to be him. But they do have to be a lot of things. Things I (probably inaccurately) associate with him, and have yet to associate with anybody else.
So the problem is this – and, maybe, like the mechanic stuff, this’ll seem less like the case when my son is older; maybe this is just a phase of my existence where I am destined to be romantically unattached, with hands devoid of tools – finding someone I don’t yet know to build a fucking life with just sounds like so much fucking trouble. Finding someone who meets the fucking criteria is just such a fucking hassle.
Love is not an issue. Love is fucking abundant. I have no trouble loving. She fucking says. I just can’t be bothered to build up trust. I can’t be bothered to invest time in someone who might not be where I am. I can’t be bothered to go through all the motions of developing the relationship in a fucking healthy and appropriate manner. I have enough of that in my dreams, for fuck’s sake. It would be such a relief to skip merrily through that part, because the person who my brain has already been rewired to unconditionally revere, coincidentally, turns out to be worthy and reciprocating of that in such a way that it facilitates a real world, physical reality, human relationship. That’d be nice, eh?
A year and a half ago, my ex – in some vague attempt to maybe, kind of, get me back, but not really, just maybe see if I was available, I don’t know, just find out, theoretically, if that could be an option, you know, if he decided that he wanted it to be, he wasn’t sure, just putting the feelers out – said it would be so much easier if we were together. And, as much as that didn’t make me swoon, I empathise. I would like things to be easier too.
For me, though, the logistics aren’t the issue. The logistics pale in comparison to the emotional labour. So I don’t much care if I have to cross oceans. I just want someone I would happily cross oceans for. But, more importantly, I want someone who has earned my crossings, so…
I don’t think I’m going to be able to take the easy way out. I think I have to go through the hassle.