Victim of love
you have a broken heart
and you have a story to tell.
Victim of love
it's such an easy part
and you know how to play it so well.
I think you know what I mean --
you're walking in the wire
of pain and desire,
looking for love in between.
(Anonymous)
That poem was not what I had in mind when I got home yesterday morning. I didn't feel sleepy right away so I decided to go online. I was not thinking of it then, but it hit me... it's been a month since I last logged in the chatrooms.
I realized that was a bad thing to think about, because then I wanted to log in again. And, as human weaknesses sometimes tend to justify our actions, I logged on right away.
When the channel messages started scrolling, the feeling of being just another virtual, unreal identity settled on my head like I was seasick. It was like I was taking on another aspect of myself, which was NOT REAL AT ALL. I was one of them again. Just another shadow in cyberspace. And people online were either just bored, or horny, or both.
That morning, initially I was bored. Initially. But as I was talking with this person, eventually... I got a little worked up. Things got a bit out of hand after that. So to speak.
Anyway, I invited the person over, even though I know I wasn't supposed to because one: my father was here; and two: my father was here. But I still did, because of (all together now) human weakness.
So we decided to meet right away and he arrived at around 20 minutes. I told the people at home that an officemate just dropped by to pick up some DVD's. We went straight into my room, and after apologizing for the mess of wires, papers, books, and CD's, it hit me like a goddamned mallet that I didn't know what the hell I should do next.
I let him sit on the bed while I fired up my laptop. I was honestly, absent-mindedly just stalling until I figure out what to do. He was trying to make small talk -- which was kind of cute -- telling me how odd it was for someone to have so many books and actually get to sleep on a bed with the piles strategically placed for comfort. I smiled weakly, bit my lip, and regarded him with a look that might have said, "Please don't think I'm such a freak."
He was quite attractive, honestly. Same age as I am, but he looked really young(er). I was almost afraid the people at home would think, "What the hell is Podi doing, bringing a kid into his room and introducing him as his officemate? Is he up to something?" He was fairly quiet, but then, most strangers are, in such encounters anyway.
Right off the bat, you can tell we won't -- can't -- jive as something closer than a brief encounter. But then again, that was the whole point why we met anyway. So we did. As nameless shadows, devoid of any emotion, we did. Like a cliche, we did, and it happened.
And while it was happening, there was a familiar tug inside me. A familiar rending of flesh, which I was holding on to for dear life so I would NOT (Goddess help me) inadvertently break down. It lasted as long as we were together, and followed through after that. And even further, until he had to leave. I was still feeling that weak, helpless, hopeless hook of something akin to a wisp of despair within my chest.
But the thing is, while we were there, I know my thoughts and my feelings make me real, I know it gut-deep. The guy I met was flesh and blood, but he felt nothing more than mere shadow for me. I don't know anything about him at all. And I made love with that shadow. The sad part is, I wonder what a shadow sees in me?
And even sadder: I may know the answer. I'm just not acknowledging it.
It may seem I'm saying that I like the person I met up with. Not at all. It's not really about him. More to the point, it's all about me. (It's always about me after all.)
I was talking with a friend and he asked me how it was. I told him... it was mostly, but not exactly, wanting to feel that you somehow MATTER to someone. That you are important to someone, and not just a featureless shadow. Like I said -- my thoughts and emotions were real. You might even say that I am in a constant fluctuation of being "in love."
More often than not, I need something to validate the "realness" of that emotion. I need something to acknowledge that what I thought and what I felt were solid and are worth... something.
Not receiving that acknowledgment is just like throwing my heart away like useless junk. Telling me I don't matter. I'm not important. And what I think and what I feel don't amount to much. That love is something dispensable. Recyclable. But I know it's more precious than that. We're more precious than that.
Sigh. I should really do something about it already. :)
