I often imagine myself rescuing you. That’s just how much of an idealistic prick I am. I often think that, if I rescued you from some great danger, that you would somehow fall helplessly in love with me. That you would have no emotional choice but to see me as a perfect entity, an entity that wants nothing else than your safety, an entity that would gladly step in front of a raging lion to save you.
Of course, let’s face it, I could do very little against any ferocious feline. Maybe if it were a vicious dog, then I would stand a chance. This complete lack of inhuman strength convinces me that I’ll probably never have the chance of being your physical savior, now that we’ve established that psychological rescue is not really an attractive field.
This is all based, of course, in all those silly movies and books I saw as a child. The hero always rescues his woman from some huge danger and therefore wins her eternal trust. He does this with a mixture of equal parts wit, brawn and a very specific choice of weapons. Sometimes, in more contemporary settings, the hero rescues the lady in distress from her living conditions or an abusive father/husband.
As much as I would like to, I can’t do any of that. I’m not particularly smart, or strong, or wealthy. I can’t save you from anything that’s currently tormenting you. I can offer very little in the field of actually making a difference in your life except trying my very best yo make you the happiest person on earth, and that’s not saying very much. Plus, we’re young. No one our age has actually tasted true happiness in any way. Obviously this puts a large red mark in my record.
The fact is you’re probably never going to be in a situation in which I may be able to save you. Even if you are, I probably won’t be around, and some other guy will rescue you and you will fall helplessly for him and I’ll be here, sitting in my room, writing.