My dear yet absent blogging friend Kyle once wrote, “It is better to have loved and lost than to never lose at all,” and at the time, I wholeheartedly agreed with him. Now, I’m not even sure to have ever loved before. Maybe my need to please, to be loved is so enormous that I mistake loving someone for just having the chance to be worthy of someone else’s esteem. Maybe I don’t really love anyone at all. Perhaps I just love the idea of someone loving me, wanting me. Quite a slovenly hog of vanity, a whore for any semblance of adoration. I have written on several occasions that I love easily, that I tend to fall in love frequently. Yet the more I think about it, the less I am sure that this is true. In this crappy moment where I can’t seem to find solid ground, when anxiety seems to be my only real soul mate, when I certainly need to turn the fucking page…I cannot decide what ails me most. Nor what to do about it. I am far past adolescence, yet I imagine myself like a chubby preschool student with pig-tails, throwing myself, my heart, my body, around the ankles of the man who did not love me anyway. (which I knew all along, making this whole ordeal completely ridiculous.) He does not even bother to brush me aside. He is strong and can continue walking despite the idea of the weight of me wretchedly hanging on to his pant leg, to his sock. Still, I am so afraid of letting go. Rupture is like death. Accepting the absence of someone who is still breathing (fucking) will be incredibly hard to swallow, and once I have managed to get past the melancholy, I have no idea what I can do to fill the void which was really just an emotional black hole from the very beginning. Here’s to getting back in the saddle.