I lie awake in my bed in the dark. I roll to my side and face the blank wall. I’m in love – I think to myself. At this moment, I feel strangely about this feeling. I can’t put my finger on it. But I’m in love, except, I’m in love with no one. I curl into my pillow and smell it, it smells like love and love sure does smell good.
I sit up on the edge of my bed and stare at the other corner of my room. Who am I in love with? Or what?
I recall the past few weeks of waking up to that clenching, fuzzy feeling in my chest. That sickly sweet feeling that signifies you’ve got someone, you’re in love, but then I become slightly more lucid and I can’t figure out who or what I’m in love with. But there it is, the clenching. It’s not in my butt, I promise. I’m talking chest here, people.
Except, I’m completely lucid right now. And this feeling just manifested itself from void and silence. No forgotten dreams to inform this state. The state just existing in itself. I lay back down. The ceiling stares back at me.
“We miss a lost wax casting of her; we don’t miss her as much as we miss her effect on us. We miss being with, someone who is attractive, smart, funny, and likes us. But guess what? That’s not her anymore.”Mark Manson
I wonder for a dull moment, if I’m still in love with my past significant man thing. I don’t like using the word; ex. There’s just something so pedestrian about it. But well, it’s not quite possible is it? To be in love with someone who well… doesn’t really exist anymore.
There’s this thing Mark Manson wrote about his past significant female thing, “We miss a lost wax casting of her; we don’t miss her as much as we miss her effect on us. We miss being with, someone who is attractive, smart, funny, and likes us. But guess what? That’s not her anymore.”
And yeah, that’s not them anymore, it’s just this waxed figurine of solidified flesh and limp hair incarcerated in our memories.
I get up from the bed for a moment and walk to my light switch, I flick it on and off, on and off, on and off. You know, I did it before… unintentionally flicking the invisible in/out of love switch and coming to the spanking realisation I wasn’t in love with someone anymore. Mainly, by using some new boy’s mouth as an electric socket/suck face device.
But I don’t believe this is possible anymore. People who say, “to truly get over someone, you need to get under someone else”, can go fuck themselves. Because really, that’s just not true. Ultimately, aren’t you just then settling for someone who can give you the intimacy that you crave, and it doesn’t really matter who that person is, as long as there’s some sort of feigned connection? You wind up in love with a notion.
I flick the switch dark and lie back down on my bed. My breathing is slower, I think the Xanax just kicked in.
It is possible to love someone you’re not in love with, and it’s possible to be in love with someone you don’t love.
What is being in love anyway? This question has popped up sporadically in my life and the answer remains a mystery. Now, loving someone is clear and definitive. Pure love, is unselfish and unyielding and just because someone isn’t in your life anymore, does not mean you don’t love them. But being in love, that’s different. It is possible to love someone you’re not in love with, and it’s possible to be in love with someone you don’t love.
Being in love then, just seems to be a path paved with questionable steps and confused minds.
Furthermore, is it even possible to be in love with someone who isn’t in love with you? Being in love stipulates a certain kind of relationship has to exist doesn’t it? People are constantly evolving and in order to be in love with someone, we’d have to be there, loving who they are and who they’re becoming. So if we’re not there, then what are we in love with?
A wax casting.
So I’ve been left to wonder, what this feeling is that’s stuck in my chest?
It stinks of love.
Then, I think, maybe I’ve fallen in love with me. I found myself singing Hoobastank’s The Reason to myself in the car the other day when it came on the radio. I once told a friend that song is for people who have low self worth. Like, if you’ve “fooooouuuund a reeeeeaaaaason to be” and it’s like some dude, get some help. But singing it to myself (like literally, I was singing it to me) the other day, I got kinda emotional… to… Hoobastank D: – “Cos the reaaasooonnn is… ME”. Then I contemplated maybe I’m in love with myself, because that’s the only viable reason I’d get emotional to… Hoobastank. And at least that’s healthier than using a guy as The Reason to… whatever.
What if, maybe I’ve been such a monogamist my whole life, bouncing from boyz II men, that the only way I know how to feel is fuzzy? Is it just permanently wired into my emotional wavelength? I shudder at the thought that that’s the only way I know how to be. I close my eyes, let my fingers run through the wrinkles of my sheets.
Am I just a chemical reaction of practice and memory?
Are we all just in love with an effect then?
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