Your Atypical Love Story
Dear Diary, itās difficult to remember my first love because experience ruined my concept of the feeling. If I were faithful to the idea, my first love would be myself, but that has never been the case. I donāt want to be perceived as a narcissist. I did enjoy entertaining the thought of love, though, if only for the thrill of clinging to the fleeting senses of purpose and comfort it offered. Itās a shame loveās ramifications wither the memories it blooms. Maybe I wasnāt prepared to hold love. Whatever, dancing is stupid, anyway.
If I were to extract a glimmering event from the pool of my consciousness and claim it as a testament to love, it would have to be the tale I chased back home. A civil disclaimer before I continue: the rest of this story will gradually plunge into the gut-wrenching depths of psychedelic-infused, deranged lust, but with a tasteful twist. To set the mood, this cuddly goddess was a vicious harpy, but for chivalryās sake, Iāll leave her name anonymous. Such is the nature of the game, I suppose. I donāt know, maybe thatās just me being Mr. Mustard.
I met her back in the good old days of the infantile masquerade: a savage bloodletting of wild children acting erratic for peer review. I was a largely a bystander in the comfortable massacre, a wall dandelion under constant barrage for his inability to communicate while in the grip of THC. She was the distressed princess, the girl next door, perfect for her faults, daughter and mother to fellow outcasts building a home from the wreckage of broken ones. As now expected of my awkward temperament, I was smitten by a smile and the twinkling of an eye that signaled a possibility of a future in her. Insecurity and fickle allegiance to the bro-code has a curious way of arranging fate, however.
Despite knowing about the failed courting episodes engaged by both my best friends, and the bad-blood that ensued between them, I eventually snagged her from her on-again, off-again, doo-doo-faced excuse for a boyfriend. All of those clumsy texts over the course of months had finally paid off, it seemed. Cool. Ball was in my court now. Turns out I was a bad player, but not so much that it was beyond forgiveness. However, I was always cautious of her intentions. Was she using me as a means to get back at her ex? Sometimes itās hard to tell if youāre a king, knight, pawn, or fool.
The romance dissipated quickly, like the smoke we met in. Once the reality struck me, desperation surged, flooding me with delusions. Distraught, I fled to rehab and off-handedly Facebook stalked her. Itās strange what tricks the mind plays on us. Whatever demons lurking in the unseen corners of my subconscious really have it in for me. Eventually, act cleaned up, I returned home and somehow I saw her again, solely by chance. Destiny. It had to be. It had to be. It had to be.
During a hectic night fueled by youthful rebellion and entanglement with the law, mind twisting apart on acid, I popped on The Beatles, Abbey Road. Of course, I saw the fact I had gotten off clean when dealing with pigs as a sign of the divine to see the creature of my desire. āI Want You (Sheās So Heavy)ā slithering through your eardrums and inside your brain only enhances the already grueling frustration. I was a caged animal in dire need of fixation, excited by the tempting ideations of carnal depravity. There was no more conscious over-thought, only a primal goal, and the instincts to ravage it.
There I was, lead along by the echoing souls of psychedelic pioneers. Mind, body, soul, radio, and car all shifting gears to the beat of the universe coursing through the eternal me: a Sun King In Bloom. I wanted to text her, but a calm, sensual voice whispered in my mindās eye, āJust call her.ā And, by some grace of celestial magic, I opened my phone. The screen, which was usually annoyingly spastic, instantly clicked on her name in the contacts and dialed. She was free.
Everything was attuned, the stars were aligned. This was it. Unfortunately, the result was embarrassingly anticlimactic. I did not win her over as I thought I was going to. The night ended with me foolishly believing I had gotten somewhere with her, perhaps sparked the possibility of a second chance. I was wrong, deluded. There was no happily ever after, only scorn and pity. ClichĆ©, come to think of it, but then again, so is love, war, and an Eclipse.