Back to my usual rambling.
Maybe I do better with words. Relationships don't have numbers. So the science of relationships relies on words. I'm good at that part.
Its the feeling that I don't get. Its the feeling that I don't do because I can't bring myself to think so hard. Or to make my heart shed its stone.
It's not even a heavy heart I feel. Its an emptiness that doesn't ache, that doesn't complain, that causes no inconvenience beyond my own inablility to feel emotions that don't derive themselves from hormones. That feeling starts in the stomach. It manifests itself in carelessness and adrenaline. It craves sweaty palms and pulsing bodies. Warmth and passion and all the things that should accompany love accompany only the excitement of a one-night stand. The cheap thrill. Cliche.
The desire to be desired. I can feel that. The swelling on my chest and head when I catch that glance. That I want you glance I can spot like a dog in heat sniffs out his mate. The rawness of it. This passion excludes compassion. Its not the point. It never was.
And it probably never will be.
Maybe I do better with words because anything else requires that immersion, that relation. Compassion. Its not there. Not like that. Maybe not at all. And thats okay. I'm invincible. I'm infinite. I don't need it.
The desire to be desired. That's all I've got hidden down in my - well where the hell is it? I'd be better off finding it and ripping it out. No one deserves this when they have no capacity with which to return the desire. The compassion.
That thing called love.
So without that existance of feeling, what do I have? And how can I still have that feeling in my throat that makes me was to vomit and cry at the same time?
Maybe I'm just like the Tin Man, waiting for my Dorothy (or male counterpart) to come along and whisk me off to Oz where I can petition for the allocation of a [new] heart. Of feeling. Of anything but this gap between the surge of hormones set off by the feeling of another warm body against my own, and the choking feeling in my chest, tightening with each thought.
I can't feel it. But someone once told me it should be there.
But who's to say what's normal, what's right? Maybe I'm just living in a world of arrogant, overly emotional, dripping wimps who don't know any better. How to stand up for themselves. Who don't know how to control their emotions. And I'm the normal one. The concrete, immortal, can't-touch-this bitch, hit me with your best shot and no, you're words won't do shit either. That's me. Is that what I'm so fucking proud of?
I am proud of it. I like to think of myself as the brazen bitch you can't touch w/ your dagger sharp spite - my thick skin can withstand anything you throw my way. Try. I dare you. And we'll see who comes chasing who when all is said and done and ITS OVER. Because I said so damnit.
Thats me.
Or is it? Am I really as stable as I say I am? Or am I really just as (if not more) vulnerable than all the rest? Am I capable of hurting? Of truly hurting and showing it? The latter I cannot be sure of. It's hard to feel weak, much less appear so. To admit to being so.
When will it all come rushing out? I am beginning to think my mind is stockpiling the things with which it prefers not to deal in a room labeled "Not to be opened til the year ____" And that's the day Hell will freeze over, and the sky will fall, and I'll be just like the rest of you, whom I have for so long condemned for your human ways of thinking, of being. Silly me. I was mistaken. I thought I was above you. But this simply can't be true.
Can it?
Do I want it to be true? My mind says yes. But this heart, this mystical creation that must exist, would disagree, I'm sure.
When people tell me to follow my heart, I run. Fast.