The Boy Looked At Johnny
2002-06-10 04:01:49 (UTC)

Not a trace of doubt in my mind

More boring notes on romance:

There's a couple of other online journals I read pretty
regularly. One in particular belongs to an acquaintance-
bordering-on-friend of mine from back home. She's
hopelessly in love with her boyfriend, and has been since
they started going out about six months. Maybe longer.
Regardless, she's usually very in love with whoever she's
dating, and it's something I've always followed.

The longer you go without romantic involvement, or sex, or
some combination of the two, the more abstract a concept it
becomes. I think we're approaching a year-and-a-half with
me, and I don't expect that will be changing anytime in the
near future. Anyway, a little over a year ago, I read her
entries, or otherwise heard about her various ongoing
romances, and always wondered to myself "when will this
happen to me?" There's always some jealousy, some
wistfulness, some identification. But I'm noticing the
nature of the question changes; at a certain point, it
becomes "how could this happen to me?" And eventually --
and here is where I am now -- you'll be reading her flowery
descriptions of love and it will just register as being
completely alien to you, like reading about someone
describing a murder. You recognize what's being described
on the most basic level, like the words make sense, but
that visceral impact, that "oh yes, I've been there" is
just gone. It becomes a matter of reading "Oh, I love him
so much. When I'm lying beside him I feel as if I could
just cry," and scratching your head and thinking "What in
the fuck is she talking about?" It isn't cynicism speaking
either, it's just that the question has become "WHY would
this happen to me?" Bewilderment, you know? You just pass
on to this realm where the idea of "love" makes no sense at
all. It's like something that has nothing to do with your

I'm not complaining. Actually, it's sort of a relief.