eating in front of starving men...

It's true what they say. You notice most acutely that you are missing something only when it's painfully being pointed out to you in example.

Back when I had the vague (but it turns out extremely misguided) notion that I was somehow still attached, I did not very much notice how paired up (or lack thereof) the peasantry were.

As my not-so-newly-but-fairly-recently-hammered-into-me-found singlehood has begun to settle in, it has been brought to my attention that I am, well, single. It has been "seven" (well, really it's been five before and the following two floundering in some sort of limbo nether-zone) years since I was last single-single. Naturally, this whole measurement of seven is mostly in my head, for it has realistically only been 3 years, or actually 6 months, of any real relationship-py stuff, and the rest of the time up hoping against hope, paying-full-fees-but-only-getting-visitors-only-section-benefits.

Digression over, it has been slapped upright into my head in the past month how alone I really am, even in a crowd. Some time ago (the fabled seven years), I would be fine with that. I guess you could even say it was the relish on top of the hot dog. But the years have not been kind to my ideals. The job even less so. I have taken all sorts of human weaknesses and failings, having only a moderately prettier shell to store all this additional weaknesses in.

I am lonely, and here and there people are finding others to cuddle. Even the purportedly single ones have something to cheer about; Our-Lovely-Lady-of-Spring herself, no stranger to spreading her legs for the somewhat decent flight, has found the delightful benefit of enjoying work, spinsterish-but-horny as she is. Lady Lamb has herself recently rejected a pair of suitors, but finding relief in the therapy of paper and plastic.

In a fit of self pity, I can only write to myself as to how impossibly alone I am. Alone in having a job I despise (which is, strictly speaking, very good on paper, and certainly several shades brighter than the other blighters who are bludging onward with only a minimal compensation). Absolutely alone in not having a warm body in bed, to hold in my sleep, to cuddle while watching not-teevee, to kiss goodnight.

Indeed, the only one to share bedtime with is a stuffed wolf, a gift from him. This Fluffy Wolf has been the best friend I could ask for in times recent, and certainly a refreshing chatting companion. There is, however, a slight worry that our back and forth banter has been lately causing a development of some sort of schizophrenia. But still they talk me on, only encourage the talking to stuffed toys.

Why do they keep eating in front of a starving man? Is it because they wish him to know it will be better? Perhaps they are less charitable, and is an intentional infliction of anguish. Or is it as innocent as the fact of NOT realizing it?

being a weed and living alone...

Another one married, and is just as well. They are lovely together, and you can only see good things happening for them.

The wedding was better than your expectations allowed. You knew there was a reason you were friends. They had rather impeccable taste in just about everything, even in the head waiter.Shame he left before you could summon up the courage to give him your number proper.

Like the weekend past, everything was lovely, and besides little imperfections brought upon by your own inability, or anal-retentiveness, things were, as far as they go, flawless. And from such, you cannot hope but to be painfully aware of your own solitude. How alone can you get surrounded by a sea of people who know you and see you and understand you?

On that rooftop overlooking this tropical nightmare of a city, not an hour ago, they all noticed your melancholy. Even those who had no reason to understand your history. And you, past your prime and tact, had no sense to stay on good taste and deny the all-too-truthful barbs of history.

Tomorrow he returns, bearing gifts. You don't know how you should greet him. He still showers you with the same affection of a generation gone by, but you have a niggling feeling it's more out of habit than any true emotion demonstrated by the habit.

You find that you still love him, though you are both ready, and forcing yourself to be ready, to accept new guests as and when they come around. That, and cheese.

52 pickup...

It's been a long time since our last revisit. For posterity, it is good you write it here while the musings are morose again.

Since we last left off, the job search in the lovely city South was of to minimal avail. For the record, you are far too picky. Sure, solar panel company operating from B-grade horror movie set may be a twitch dodgy, but it's probably far better a place than you are in now.

Your hopeless optimism is offensive to your own sense of self, but you had nothing left but empty promises. Next time, go with your gut, for it seems far better at this game than your brain does. Consulting had promised to be everything it did not turn out to be. That should be the last time you do a paper evaluation.

Strictly speaking, you are in a far better place than most, and should be satisfied with that. But again, you should realize that the best of a bad situation is unlikely to ever be as enjoyable as the miserable of a fabulous situation. So while this consulting gig pays better in nicer conditions that what your compatriots are settling for, it is not for you.

If there's any takeaway from this, it's that you gave it a shot, and you should have let it drop.

And finally, you have managed to end something that should have ended so many years ago. Rightfully, you made the call in such a way that he had enough control to know that it was the way he wanted it to be. The pathetic on-and-off you had let go on with him, love of your life he may be, could only mean to kill any sense of self you had left.

Now that you've called it quits, you think that things can move on. She tells you that you should give it time. It has only been a few months so far, anyway. She's had to endure years of seeing and not touching, so she'd know better than any other. But the big difference that, you suppose, she could never fully comprehend, is the fact that ultimately the pain is that you honestly did love him. Had he asked, you'd have given a kidney, liver, your still beating heart if he asked. And that you still would.

You take solace in knowing that you're doing this because he was not happy with you. In hindsight, he never was. He let you stay around because you were comforting. You were good at providing, protecting. But you were never what he wanted, and maybe not even needed. Seven years is a long time. In some jurisdictions, you may even have been common law spouses. But you know better now. The last couple of years were merely zones of comfort. It was as apparent to you then as it was to anyone else that he had no honest affection for you. The last year painfully so when you were no longer Love.

And soon he will return, as his annual pilgrimage dictates. You are friends still, since there was no real wrong. But can you honestly say there's any right?

Shocking then it should be that you should finally, after so many years, come across another someone who so quickly smote you, so different than any you would categorically find attractive. Too much of a Princess, this one. Too delicate, and certainly too much of an Oriental persuasion for your typical liking. And yet smitten you were.

After all, he was rather pleasant to the eye. A little shorter than you would normally find, but that added to the charm. He was of fine face, chiselled cheeks, with shoulders that belied the hours he put in, and, to put it directly, an ass that wouldn't quit.

They were only too happy to oblige you, since the whole notion of Princess in distress is a trope all too appealing, in all iterations, in all flavours. While you continue to thank them for their enthusiasm in helping in this pointless pursuit, you have found yourself in these past hours, pondering if this is merely a delayed rebound, a rebound from finally letting your internal turmoil set and say that things have already ended with him.

From their giggly interrogation, its obvious that you will likely not have a chance with him. At least, in no more or less certain terms as the impatiently-awaited End that you have been pursuing with inconsistent skittishness.

Your generosity in this final season of annual gifting was born of death throes of someone who has honestly given up on life. The promises of things unseen, of sensations unfelt, of loves not affected, of pleasures not experienced, holds far less dread than the idea of having to live a life in knowledge of the pointlessness of the whole pursuit.

You buy them expensive gifts because you cannot shake the feeling that you may not live out the following year. And hope against hope that this is true, because like all things that you know are meant for you, it will be cruelly denied, as the world deems it rightfully should.

You crave a labour that interests and rewards, and are granted false promises and perspectives, methods that offend your carefully crafted sense of self.

You yearn for a life simple as it used to be, uncomplicated by the treasons of "modern living".

You long for the touch of a love gone past, gone by your hands and deeds, gone by your affections, and gone by the lack of his.

You lust for a new one, another living body with a physical attraction so great as to be inexplicable, but so far away from your ideal that your body and mind are at constant odds.

And you reach for a grave that will not be filled by a body yet, only the hopes and dreams long left to rot by a world that is not ready or interested for them,

Thanks for the memories, and may they serve you well.