Brokee or Broker?

I know. After such long silence, I'm going on a massive post overload.
Why? Maybe because it's February.
You know, that mushy month with a day where all couples all over the world try to outdo one another with mushy things for their significant other.
No, I'm not bitter. Never..

Ever wondered why love is scary?

Essentially, loving someone is placing yourself in the hands of another person and making yourself totally vulnerable to dissapointment, frustration and heartache caused by them, be it intentional or not.

But you know what? That's the bit I can get past. ( or at least, I think I can. Fine, maybe not but for the sake of this post, let's just say I can, okay. ) There's some element of risk in anything, and there are all sorts of squishy reasons to go ahead and allow yourself that vulnerablity. The sticky part, as I see it, is something like this;

What if I end up being the one causing the dissapointment, frustration and heartache? Can I actually trust myself with this gift that the other person is willing to share with me? I am so imperfect, so prone to hurting another's feelings and entertaining my overactive imagination. What if somehow, I end up being the one to cause the damage?

I can't stand that idea. It terrifies me. To just think about hurting that one person I care so much about, it's unimaginable. I'd rather bite my tongue. And thus, these thoughts peck at my brain, attempting to drive me mad fretting about something that's not even visible on the horizon at this point in time. Or at any point in time in the foreseeable future.

I'm that pathetic.

Perhaps I just need some rest and everything will go away...

Lost Love.

I'm all about depressing posts lately. Bear with me. I'm posting these because, well, I have nothing more interesting to say and I don't want the blog to die either, okay! It's a good blog, even though not many read it. They probably drop in once in a blue moon but that's okay. Why? Because I'm writing for me. And you. Not them.

It sucks, you know, lost love. There're many forms, believe me, many many forms but, I think the worst lost loves are the childhood crushes. The Charlie Brown " little red-haired girl " ones. The loves that were so lost you never had them in the first place. And then inevitably, ten, twenty, maybe forty years later you run into one another and it's entirely awkward. You can call out your whole army of awkward turtles for this one.

What if he doesn't remember you? What if you've grown so senile you've forgotten him? Somehow you both get through the coyness and shyness and learn that back then, both of you did have a thing for each other and gee, why didn't you ever do anything about it? Neither of you know, really. You think back and come up with excuses but it doesn't matter.

It's too late.

Lost opportunity. Lost chances. Lost love.

Well, it's not too late, is it? You're both here now. And that's all that matters. You're both mature adults. So maybe you'd manage to get a hotel room or do the ' your place or mine ' thing. Then you get it on and the results is almost always so anti climatic. Of course it is! Because a person can never compete with the fantasy that the other person invented years ago. It's like Donald Duck trying to fly faster than Superman.

Or worse; One of you is taken. In the interum of the decades of lost love, one of you got tired of waiting and settled for someon who wasn't as good as the fantasy of the lost lover. You know what they say, there's plenty of fish in the sea. And why did they do it? It's because ( and this is the most important part ever ) THEY WERE THERE WHEN IT GOT COLD. So, there's not this other person in the picture who wasn't there twenty or thirty years ago and if she got involved, gee whiz, this might get complicated. So you begin thinking about all the ' damned if you do, daned if you don't ' scenarios. And ultimately, you realize what I've told you from the beginning.

That lost love really sucks.

Shabby may just be Right.

Today is such a.. lazy Sunday.
Sure, I'm studying but at such a leisure pace.
I'm actually rather terrified about my PR exam. Honest!
Have I mentioned I haven't even bought the PR textbook and it's midterms already?
Yeah, bummer.

I have an interesting story for you today.
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There once was a girl. She was a pastor's kid, a nice good girl with a steady boyfriend. She was quite a looker really, attractive and smart with a good heart. Who wouldn't fall for her right? And, she did indeed have her fair share of admirers. Trust me on that.

And there was this one guy. He didn't come from a very rich family, rather, he was only average. Not that good looking, more normal and maybe just a tinche Shabby. He worked at the same company as the girl and had liked her for a long time. Each time he approached her, she would politely turn him down.

One day, a whole bunch of them went out drinking one night after work. They were all pretty tipsy, some even drunk. The girl in our story was one of them who was dead drunk. The guy offered to take her home since he was one of the only sober ones around. The rest didn't object and they left the shop to go on home.

They detoured from the way back to the girls house. He brought her to a motel and right there and then, he took her. She was semiconscious and by the time she woke up the next morning, it was all too late; She had been defiled.

There went her life. There went her dreams. What about her boyfriend? What about her life? Her family? Her future? What was to happen to her? People would surely look down on her now. She was.. a black sheep now. Tained.

But the guy was so sorry after that. He went to the family and apologized; he was so ashamed and sad that he had hurt her so. He just loved her so much. How would he justify his actions when they were just purely out of love? In the end, he proposed to her. He took responsibility.

The girl's boyfriend told her that it would be okay. He would still accept her even after she had been touched by someone else. Things didn't seem so bleak now, did they? I mean, people weren't throwing tomatoes at her at least.

However, she was so torn up inside. She had always believed that the one person that took her, she would marry. It broke her heart to think that because of that, if she chose to stick to her values/morals, she might end up marrying someone she didn't even love. And that she did. She married the guy.

And this is where the story ends.

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Doesn't that just kill you? To have your chance of a happy ending taken away from you. It's a real story by the way. Not a fiction of my imagination, sadly. It always almost makes me cry all the time whenever I hear it. I mean, it just pulls at your heart strings, you know?

And for the record, the guy and the girl are happily married right now with a daughter. She loves him and he loves her more than ever before. Everyone can see that. So, she did make the right choice. Though she never got the chance to marry her rich boyfriend ( who was the son of some jewelers ) she did get her happy ending, though in their case, they did a sort of backward dating.

It just goes to prove that you can learn to love someone.

The Little Things.

Do you know what's the hardest part of it all? The hardest things about unrequited love is not that I can never experience you holding me in your arms, not that I will never know the feel of your rough stubble when our lips meet, not that I will never know how it feels like to have you make love to me. Sure, those things can be difficult but they aren't the hardest things.

The toughest things are being unable to send you the love letters, being unable to hug you whenever I want, and being unable to entwine our fingers when they brush against each other. It is being unable to do all of the infinitesimal things that love requests me to do that really drives me insane. Love is like that. It desires, of it's own accord, to be expressed in some form. It is a constant force, driving my actions, telling me to reach out and just touch you, only for an instant, just the slightest brush of my fingertips against your face. Sometimes, I think the endless bliss of such a thing would be enough to stop my heart. And what a sublime way it would be to go.

Love moves all on its own. It requires no encouragement and no motivation. It is as if some sort of intricate and beautifully delicate perpetual motion machine has been set loose inside of me. Only you could do this. I cannot stop it and I cannot let it run free. It runs and runs and I wonder what it would sound like if it were a real motor turning within me. An exquisite sweet hum, and perhaps a sound like wind chimes on a summer afternoon. Still, the actions which it desires must be held in check. To use a silly metaphor that only a boy as wonderful as you would appreciate, I have to hold my foot on the clutch all day long.

It's all worth it though. I still get to write the love letters, even if I can't send them. And I do ask you for hugs, though I can't have them all the time. Perhaps once in a great while you might accidentally brush against my fingers with your hand, and even if it does not stop my heart, please do not be surprised when I stumble in mid-step because my knees have given way, and my voice gets caught in my throat as I try to explain what I would like to have for lunch. Only you could do this, and I would only ever want you to be the one who led me to such a state.

It's official. I need a life.

Tumble and Stumble.

I know I'm in the midst of my midterms. Well, not really in the middle, since it just began today but that's not the point. I was just thinking about unrequited love. I know, it's a pretty depressing topic. Meh, like I don't know that.

I'm sitting here supposedly studying for my Critical Thinking Skills exam but I have an urge to blog. Besides that, I just can't seem to concentrate since I began entertaining these thoughts.

His three types of smiles, of which one can send my tummy spinning in spirals till I feel I'm about to pass out from the excitement, the way he laughs as though he's so short of breath and his voice is caught in his throat, the way his nostrils flare when he plays his bass. I'm afraid to touch him, you know. Sometimes I can't even touch him casually like I would others. I almost don't want to feel the warmth of his skin in friendly contact. It would be easier if I didn't know him from a dream. I'm afraid he'll read this and know it's for/about him. I'm even more afraid that he'll read this and not know.

He smells like fabric softener. Not that impressive, I guess, but he does. I remember. I recall the rough carpet grass feeling of his hair and how it just seems to bounce back into place when he ruffles it. I'm afraid he'll never speak to me again. I can still hear his voice. How he was commenting about some words I used often and how they can be unhealthy. Things were more antagonistic then, in an almost unfriendly way. But now, I can feel the banter getting thin. I don't know the strain on him but I know the strain on me.

I hear him talk about how much he misses his family and I want to hug him in a warm embrace and chase all those pains away. I want to make things better; I want to make things right. But I can't! I seem to do everything wrong. Everything about me is bad, wrong, not good enough. Sometimes, he seems so far away that I can't help but think that maybe we're on total different levels. Maybe we aren't even of the same species. Who knows. But sometimes, it hurts that I can't slow down enough to be appealing.

Hah. It sounds so depressing, but in a way, I think it's beautiful on it's own.