Pain

I believe I might end up in love with one of my best friends. An ostensibly ironic way of beginning something entitled "Pain" you might think. Well, pain takes a lot of forms. There is indeed an infinite multitude of synonyms for pain depending on the connotation. Hell, you could be in pain when watching your child's first step, when you're consumed by nostalgia and the fear of knowing that your life no longer means anything but what is expressed through that little bastard's development. There's pain in that, the selflessness forcefully imbued into a person who isn't even prepared to live their own life independently. I mean that's just one thing that sprung into my mind, there's a lot of pain out there.

By the time I finish this I may have decided whether or not to actually post it, or maybe I'll just keep re reading it over and over then accidentally click to post it while I'm trying to add a sentence explaining why I might not post it, but then you won't really know unless I do, obviously, and I bet you never know which sentence THAT would have been... I'm not entirely sure if I am at all correct in my presumption that I am in love with her. I have enough problems, enough baggage, and enough self-contempt stored in my being derived solely from things my fault to have another, and having this out there written would just solidify it, making it something tangible instead of just a lurking fear. I've got my incredible procrastination skills, anxiety, self esteem or lack thereof, and an astonishing ability to make everything a lot harder than it needs to be; I don't want to be in love with anyone. I hate it. Rephrase: I hate the person I am, more, when I am in love.

There's something you should know about me pertaining to this; I like love. I hate being in love. There's nothing more painful than being in love with someone. It doesn't matter, in my case at least, who it is, or what it is, or what it/her tastes like. I hate being in love. I love a lot of things. I love the idea of not dying alone, as paradoxical as that is relative to my stance on the subject I am examining. I love my friends, but I'm not usually in love with any of them, because most of them have penises, and that would make me gay, which I most definitely am not. They're probably not happy with me right now but it's whatever, to be blatant. If I could explain how I feel in all entirety every subject of my life right now without feeling like a whiny hypocrite then I would, and they wouldn't be mad, but I'm not Jesus, so there.

Anyway, having cleared up slightly the indiscernible miasma that is my thought process, We are brought back to my impasse. It was funny how we came to meet. It's even funnier why I feel the way I do, but funny isn't pain and neither is the opposite unless you're as macabre as I am, and you're not. Simply put, you can't help falling in love, but you can help putting it on the internet. And since I only use the internet anymore to keep this stupid shit I write recorded where people can read it if they want, I honestly don't give a God damn what people think unless they plan to tell me I'm the next Ralph Waldo Emerson, and they won't. They being you, and I doubt most people my age know who that was. Anyway, If I could help how I felt then I wouldn't have to remind my mother every time we argue that I simply hate her, and I wouldn't have to fear having stupid feelings that I detest because of the fear of them breaking up one of the best friendships I have going now and ever did have.

To reiterate, the prepositional phrase "being in love" represents at least ten-fold the amount of pain that "Fuck, you stabbed my hand" does. At least your hand's going to maybe get better. I've been around a couple years, and I've never heard anyone say over malt liquor and a really big cigarette, "God I've just never trusted people since he stabbed my hand with that spork," though had that spork been made of elephant bone gilded in titanium that might be understandable in some sick bed-room scenarios. On the other hand, being in love always seems to animate that beautiful pain that poets write about and writers bitch about; that exquisite blood red emotion that churns about, fermenting with each cyclic manifestation, festering as a sore in the heart, never relieving you of your agony. Like the psychotically ill, a pain for which there is no catharsis.