Having initially surrendered to these emotions before learning to subdue, sequester, and study them I find some part of my day, however small, where I am a slave to an incongruous past. The cognitive dissonance when it cannot be ignored disassembles me and churns me out through a mental vortex.
The irrational persistence of love or whatever it is I feel about somebody I used to know has utterly perplexed me on a day to day basis. On most days with appropriate amounts of stimuli distractions of the limbic mind do not adversely affect my day.
Yet without fail there are moments that puncture my thoughts with what I assume are but bullets from the past except for the present quality attached to each vicious attack. These rude interruptions have a currency that defy my acceptance and memory of an irreconcilable split.
What paltry relationship can be had after such a violent end? Given such an acrimonious parting of ways, of what value could any future interactions have?
Surely I must just be lacking of another relationship of similar depth (but hopefully fewer mitigating circumstances) that benefits from my greater experience. In the last year there were as many girls as there ever has been albeit with this past horror colouring my ability to become one half to something better.
With portents of the past still affecting my day the epistemological doubts are more legitimate, well at least to me. Filling my days with books, close friends, football, and work has not proven futile. The potential freedom of a working adult life that a young student dreams up is not entirely illusory in my experience. The money allows for a slightly better material living, more than we can actually afford but the drink delays this realisation.
So each morning like the eyes preserved over night, the total bill after a night of revelry, or every blade of grass covered in morning dew, the clarity of the past is really but a fog on the present. I have “moved on” but not quite. Hang on mate. Calling upon every faculty and having utilised every aphorism, cliche, and pearls of wisdom I am no long afflicted by faulty thinking I declare but my submission has been edited. It required re-submission. Except again without fail as if acceptance is some nirvana I am not supposed to grasp it does not pass the mustard.
Like the maximum of a parabola, too much effort and I’ll be past it or too little and I’ll never come across it. Surfing with precision over a wave of uncertain, varying height. Due to the tempestuous nature of the form, I ride then I crash. Another clarion cry comes with each new dawn only to find this hard won battle was not the war.
This hamster wheel of progress frustrates me until the new surroundings remind me that at least the owner has moved me into a better and cage. Improvements are demonstrable, genuine, and verifiable. However with each rise of the sun the suffocated embers of what I once felt reemerge as a brilliant flame. Only tempered by reality.
The epistemological uncertainty gives way to an existential crisis. What am I? Why me? Am I so stubborn? Or is this simply my lot in life? I feel so in control in all areas but this. A young fool with a poor grasp of reality and romantic delusions despite all the facts. Was it really love? Will some future relationship render this one insignificant as this did to others before?
Empirical answers are always available to us by definition. We raise a question and then answer it with current measurements eschewing iterations from before. Every current evaluation tells me it cannot have been love or even friendship. Look at it now. Yet the search for law and theory yields but one frightening proposition: I love her.
Against all reason. Despite her deterrence. Countering all current circumstances.
Dearer to me than my fondest memories. More than sex. Sweeter to me than any lolly. Lovelier than every rhyme, poem, and sonnet. She was that girl to me. She is that girl.
This prolonged disruption to our connection should have starved this tumour. But what is a child if not a parasite to the mum? It cannot be intrinsically bad that I remain deeply devoted. Daily reminders beg to differ.
Why love why?
She has all the virtues that bore me and none of the vices that excite me.
Beauty often seduces us on the path to truth.
Science is knowledge - art is skill. Medicine is neither
This is my life. I will relax when it is over.
I have always contended that love does not exist. Our stochastic appearances do not carry greater meanings and our interactions do not make for deeper connections. The rarely subtle desperation from our existential crises that push for something more are instead resolved by further probing, dark humour, and football. Ever so briefly, I suspended disbelief. Powerfully torn away from this foolish dream state (which I did fight to remain in), my perspicacity has returned. Hands steady. Mind open. Feet moving. Love is but a redundant excursion with costly consequences. Fanciful. Fleeting. Failing. Football flows as life does with all its vicissitudes and probabilistic perturbations. Lionel is my Messiah and Sepp Blatter my satan. Ole my amen.
One by one