Out of this World

I adore the dramatics of Love. The concept. The silliness. Acting out all the bits and pieces. So is it the concept or the person? How can I tell? Am I just giving myself more excuses to run away from any possibility of something real with a real person? Anything that happens in reality doesn't measure up to that weird ethereal dream mush. I keep it that way on purpose, not consciously, but definitely on purpose. The Greatest Loves live in stories and in my head and in their struggle to survive, struggle to maintain. I've trained myself to think that longing and yearning is love, so Boys have to be unattainable to be lovable. The struggle is where love builds. That's what made a certain past Boy so perfect for me: we went through years of not actually being together but fooling around on and off through our melodramatic friendship. That was passion. Until I stopped pining over him and fooling around turned into physical recreation without the big sparklies in my soul.

New goal: associate Love with contentment and Happiness. Love should go along with those moments when everything in the world is just so completely beautiful and awesome I want to take a bite out of it and explode. Those moments have always been very solitary for me, even if I'm surrounded by people. If I can find someone who really sees it and feels it and shares it, that would trump all my whiny piny love.

Ugh. Still setting Love in the ethereal. Still running around on Mars and Venus.
Reality: Flirt with Boys. Talk to Boys. Enjoy spending time with Boys. Find favorite Boy. Smooch Boy.
That's how things are done down here on earth. Just choose a partner and go dancing. Doesn't need to be so cosmic or complicated.

But it still does for me. There's magic and serendipity when I close my eyes and listen. I've spent most of my life trying to fit into LogicLand. Things seem to work out better for me when I tell Logic and Should to go fuck themselves. Something about Rogers Park reminds me of my music camp. It's the feeling and the people and walking by the lake all the time. The feeling. A sense of freedom from my parents and who I try to be at "home." At camp, I never worried about that. I worked on the things I cared about and let things that didn't matter to me slide. I spent every minute possible with people I adored because I could. There wasn't the pressure to have to explain myself and my actions and justify my decisions. I still worried and overthought and freaked out about Boys and did all sorts of typical me things and typical teenager things, but it was a different mold than usual and I liked it.

My parents are the source of much of my anxiety. I think even more than I realized, which was already a terrifying lot. It's not their fault, the same way it's not the fault of the spider when the arachnophobe panics, but they are my spider.

Ohmigawd. Fear Factor needs to start locking people up with their parents.

I think I'm showing up at an estate sale in six hours?