The Abyss Gazes Also Into You

It occurred to me lately that I’ve been seeing what I do under a wrong light all along. Yes, it’s beautiful to think I’m “Winning you over”. It’s also false and stupid. It’s also futile and dumb. It’s also not remotely true.

Love at first sight is like Santa Claus. Movies tell you it’s real. Books tell you it’s real. Sometimes even your parents tell you it’s real. Once you grow up a little, you realize there is no such thing as love at first sight. You start realizing barely anyone really falls in love anymore. They way more often do something that we call, “settle” which is simply giving up and getting together with anyone who will give them what they want. Sure, some people have been known to actually fall in love, but their numbers are so reduced, they are negligible.

I recently realized that I want to have writer friends so that they can write about me with the same insight and affection that I observe them with. Then again, since I have none, I’ll just have to keep doing what I’m doing and write about myself shamelessly. For example, I like to write discrete, secret messages with chalk everywhere I can just in case someone will come around and read them someday. Even if someone erases them or writes over them, the fact that I wrote something on a surface where nothing was supposed to be written gives me personal satisfaction.

Even if I had someone in who to focus my romantic intent, it would be useless, because the only thing I actually know how to do is to write, and I think I’m pretty lousy at that too. Plus, girls are not impressed by writing, It’s way too straight-forward. Written declarations of love are only appreciated after the person has a general feel for who you are and what to do, not before. You cannot “confess” anymore, simply because there are too many unsolved variables and you simply can’t go around confessing to everyone. You don’t love everyone, you love a select group of people who dislike being told they are loved by others.

I hate my generation, and that reflects in  my writing so clearly, it’s not even a secret anymore. What does it mean, to hate one’s generation? Do I hate myself? Do I hate everyone else but myself? After all, I am part of  my generation. Whether I want it or not, some traits from the modern way of living have imprinted themselves into me. I talk like my generation wants me to talk, I eat what my generation wants me to eat, I watch what my generation wants me to watch. Some other traits I have decided not to follow. One night stands, going to clubs and quick relationships are included in that category.

I’ve frequently tried to write meaningful, poetic songs, without much success. It seems I can only create funny songs, and that’s only when I’m improvising. I sometimes wish I was as good as Cole Porter, or as witty as Max Bemis. I wish I could see the world the way they saw it. I worship the ability to describe my feelings with poetic accuracy, like it was a super power. Every time I try to write a meaningful song, it sounds incredibly cliched. There is nothing I dislike more than cliches.

It’s funny how people talk about what they like and what the want men/women to be like, and then when it’s right in front of them, they choose to ignore it and go search for someone ‘better’. This is lonely men’s main complaint against women. Women tend to fall in line with those who ignore them, rather than those who find them absolutely ravishing. This can make falling in love very difficult. It limits the possibilities of dating, and it leaves almost everyone with a bad taste in their mouths once they get older.

It’s also hilarious when you see someone who you think is perfect for you, and you’re sure they feel it too, but they’re going out with one of your friends. It’s beautifully tragic. It makes me happy, in a way, because it shows me that movies are not always wrong. The feeling of longing I feel is real, and so is the fact that, even if they break up, I’ll have a very hard time if I try to achieve something with her, because they’ve been dating for so long. Plus, he’s my friend, and he does not handle jealousy well.

I think the problem lies in that I can’t find meaning in anything. Someone once told me that, once you found beauty in everything, you started really living. I do see beauty in things, I just cannot find meaning to that beauty. Why are things beautiful? Why are things terrible?

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