21. weltschmerz

Inside the longing that comes with any capacity for thought within the wandering mind is the surprise of how short the period of time is that managed to conjure the longing.

Short term longing.

It takes only so long for a longing to occur, seeming both wholly unique from every other yearn as well as part of the same long narrative – one black pearl on the same string.

But I’ve been quite long-winded on the topic of longing, considering this is not about big, blanket longing – rather, this is about the nostalgia of the dream versus the cold, stinging fact of the reality, and how longing for one makes the other seemingly impossible to endure.

Sighs abound, this is a story about a girl.

It’s a story about many girls, but really, it’s a bout one girl: the perfect girl – who, by the way, does not exist, except before she’s met.

I’ve not known plenty of girls who were perfect merely because I’ve not known them. And I leave you to wonder: do these girls become lose perfection upon meeting someone like myself, who is so imperfect that there is no alternative to the quality rubbing off on them, ruining them? Or do I let the presumption of the perfection of another fester, projections on mysteries that lead me to believe a girl might be perfect – a reality only to be broken upon knowing them, knowing otherwise?

That said, most girls I’ve met and longed for are perfect, but for a version of me that does not exist. And this sad fact leaves me bedridden sometimes, even when I’m out and about.

My mind’s abusive marriage with my heart has the two of them indefinitely bedridden. Both require a divorce to get up, but their mutual weakness – the bulk of what they have in common – keep them together, reliant, codependent, and ultimately embittered. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ll be forcing their wrinkled, nonexistent hands to turn the pages of a photo album filled with snapshots of sunny days that never took place.

The rest of my body carries this sickly couple through the days like a chubby redheaded toddler carries a lucky rabbit’s foot through a garden.

As the old, married couple inside weep in unison, I try to dry their tears with smoke. And now, sitting here, putting the cigarette out, I understand: this is not a story, but it’s a story about a guy.

 

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