I'm tired of crying.
I've cried more in the last four days than I have in a long time. I hate crying. The best part, though, was when I cried for no reason this morning when Chris Farley tried to ask me - repeatedly, I might add - what I did ("whaddja do?whaddja do?whaddja do?") It's a cute story, actually. But how ridiculous is that?
See, the essential problem is that I am an idiot. Kinda dumb, I am. My Heart thinks he's super smart, though. He really thinks he knows the score. Then there's this little part of my Mind that also believes that my heart knows what's going on. And they both jump the gun, every time, when it comes to men, relationships, and the dreaded "L" word.
I am an uncontrollably impulsive, passionate, trusting, hopeful, unrealistically optimistic (despite my rampant cynicism & sarcasm) person. I read too much into things - words, actions - take too many/the wrong kinds of risks, give too freely of myself to others, and am cursed with an overly honest tongue. I see possible paths where there are clearly marked detour signs. I hold out hope, even when facing a sign that reads "Abandon hope, all ye who enter here". I believe, even when there isn't a single sign that should lead me to imagine.
What is it that leads me to behave this way? A dream. A fantasy, really. About...a man. A partner. A best friend. My other half. My "better" half. Companionship.
All that up there, those are the things that I crave, that I long for, that I would fight for, that I would do anything to protect once it truly became mine.
But the more time passes, the less likely it seems that this elusive gift will come my way. And time and time again I find myself tilting at windmills and battling imaginary villains in defense of the deepest desire of my heart, a thing which I have yet to hold in my arms.
I feel like I've been close a few times. So close that I could almost hear the clang of metal against metal as my villains took partial form. So near that I was sure I felt the hand of my love on my shoulder as I fiercely defended us. I would even swear that his breath brushed past my cheek as he spoke my name aloud, his voice almost more than just an imagining of my mind.
And then, before I could fully embrace the reality of his arrival, the swing of my sword lost its iron edge and the windmills reappeared. And there again I stood, alone, in the empty battlefield of my dreams.
It's getting harder to fight the good fight. Practice might make perfect - and practice I have aplenty - but age & time have a way of dulling even the most sharp convictions. The battle seems less important. The fight less noble. The glorious end, no longer in sight, fades into oblivion amidst the gunsmoke. Night is falling. It seems that surrender to the inevitable is the only reality that remains.
And I am tired.