Attention span, attention span, attention span. I sit down with a clear, well-formulated idea in mind; start writing it, get to a few lines (on a good day), and then get utterly bored with what I’m doing. Is it supposed to be this difficult? Should I be doing something else than writing? Should I try to be more tuned in to writing at all times? Do I spend too much time on things that have too little to do with writing and creating narratives? Should I find a way to wreck my neighbours stereo? I swear, she plays nothing but bonehead techno. No offense. Actually, yes. If you’re the type who listens to that crap, be offended. And then mend your life with some decent music. I mean, come on. It’s just killing brain cells. Where’s the soul in it? And don’t come at me with “but you listen to punk,” yes, I do – but punk is just about the most soulful music around these days. And I get the techno concert/trance party. I get the desire to lose yourself completely, out of your mind on drugs and sounds – but please, keep it in closed areas, designed for such intense behaviour. Don’t attack your good-natured neighbours with a dose of dope every other afternoon. It’s just cruel. I’ve put on M83’s Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming in an attempt to find some shared middle-ground between her techno and my wish for something just a tad more melodic. I hope she accepts my extended hand. I hope she moves out soon.
I need to find something to do. What I mean is: I have to find a way to do the things I want to do. There’s such a large discrepancy between my wishes – my aspirations – and what I actually spend my time on. Games, series, movies – and then I read a book once in a while, and sit down, seriously, to write even more seldom. At least I have begun writing down ideas as soon as I have them. Normally I would go to bed kicking myself for all the writing prompts I had left lying out and about during the day. No more, I say – no more! (Let’s see how long I will be able to keep that up)
Looking at my love life, which is the most imperative part of this ever-growing number of posts, I see a mess. Ruins, actually, might be more befitting. I’m pretty sure there once was something there – maybe even a small village, a charming church and a functioning aqueduct – but now there’s just the sad remains; beautiful only to those who study these matters; beautiful only in written accounts. When lived through there’s just the sense of aimless wandering, made only the more difficult when finally targeted at something and having absolutely no clue how to attain that which is desired. I’m reckless and shy in equal measure, but I should flip them around (be reckless when I’m shy/shy when I’m reckless) for it to really function, I guess. There’s something I need to work on, definitely, I just can’t pinpoint what it is. Why do I always turn my back to happiness?
I always run away if it’s there, and start a never-ending chase if there’s absolutely no possibility of love growing from the soil. And I’m just caught now. Caught bad. I really want this to happen. I can see the future. It’s not even forced, like it usually is when I’m being true and honest with myself, it’s just… the future. It’s the natural way for things to be, if I end up with her. And that’s.. I don’t know. That’s perhaps what I should tell her, that whenever I look at her, I see her, but.. I see so much more than that. I see her now, and I see her in five years with our child, and I see her in ten, when we’re actual grown-up adults fighting whole new battles that we never thought of, because every age is so preoccupied with itself, that it dares not think of the perils that lie ahead, but also how we get through them, because we understand each other every step of the way, even when we don’t.
That’s what makes unrequited love so difficult.
That feeling of her being here, even when she’s not.
That feeling of her loving me, even when she doesn’t.