I Won’t Settle

“I am so hungry for a big smashing creative burgeoning burdened love: I am here; I wait.” – Sylvia Plath

This is truth for me. This is undiluted, raw truth.

This is truth that I hide under practicality and reality and distraction and frankly, a lack of viable candidates anyway.

Because whenever I think of all my hopes and dreams, especially the really steep ones, there’s always that voice ‘but you gotta be realistic though’ , telling me not to think too outside my scope. That’s the ‘real world’ talking. And I’ll concede, that voice is very necessary. It stops me from flying off rooftops and such. But I have to admit, reality breaks my heart.

But what about this ‘big, smashing, creative etc..’ love? Is it so far out of my reach? Maybe the type I’m thinking of. Because all these movies and novels and music sell me bullshit that real life can never live up to. Nevertheless, I’d like to think that, even with all that bull clouding my judgement a lot of the time, I can still reasonably want some of that. Love. Or unreasonably want all of it, because anything is possible. I mean, these love stories, what draws me isn’t so much the grand gestures or the ever-occurring love at first sight, as the connection. The fact that you can connect so deeply with another person that you just want to know every part of them. That I can also share every single part of myself and know that it’s appreciated. I don’t want to be in a relationship just to be in one. I want to be in a relationship because I cannot stand to not know you. One where I know you feel the same way. Not passive love, active, very active love. Heat and depth.

Like I said before, there are no viable candidates as at now.

I wait.

But hey, I’m sure I’m not really selling myself as much of a candidate either. Because on a normal day you won’t see any of ‘this’ part of me. I don’t go around spouting literary quotes or musing out loud. I don’t have my nose in a book walking around, ready to bump into my soulmate, and honestly, most of the time I’m holed up in my room anyway. I can be veryyyyyy basic. I can store all this away. I know where I learnt how to hide all this.

And as a result of a low sense of self-respect coupled with desperation and the unfortunate fact that I don’t have a lot to work with anyway, I fall for the typical guy. I generally fall for the guy that everyone falls for. There’s nothing particularly original about you if I like you. Because all I really need is for you to be cute and a little flirty and funny and pay attention to me. I don’t even need you to be single. You don’t have to work hard. Because I’ll take you and change and distort you in my head into who I want you to be and who you could be if only I could work on you. I take all the things I’m really looking for in a guy and inject them into the little things that you do.

I used to wonder how people could just settle for any old person, when your potential soulmate could be out there. Your great love story waiting. But I could see myself settling. It’s very easy. I get it.

But I won’t. That’ll be my new mantra, ‘I won’t settle, I won’t settle, I won’t settle.’

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Scarce Amounts of Love

I spend a lot of time ragging on myself. It’s not self-loathing, but I am aware of a lot of my flaws and, I try to call myself on them. Perhaps I do this a bit more than is necessary, perhaps I don’t do it enough of the time. I don’t know. I have no life manual so I have no idea which is better. Either way, it helps me remind myself that I’m not perfect, far from it. It helps me get a little deflation when my ego’s starting to take up space. On a side-note, I find it funny that with self-esteem as wobbly as mine, I’m still capable of an ego, what with all the hits it’s taken. It’s annoying because sometimes I think I’m a fucking awesome person. And then I come crashing back down.

Anyway, with all these constant reminders of imperfection, I find there’s a gap that needs to be filled, generally with a certain amount of self-love but, if you’re a bit prone to melancholic states like me, something darker. Maybe sadness, hatred, hopelessness? Try loneliness? Flat out depression? I don’t drown in these feelings the way I used to, because I’ve let go of a lot of my insecurities, as well a lot of the people and environments that generally went along with these feelings. Also, I think I’ve just grown. So I don’t feel these things as intensely as I used to.

But I can’t really say I love myself yet. I know I’ve said that sometimes I think I’m friggin awesome, but I don’t really believe that, and even when I do, it’s usually because of something superficial that I’m praising myself for. Like, oh, I look so pretty today, or oh, I lent her money and I don’t want it back, how great of me. And besides, I always come crashing down from that.

And when I’m not drastically either loving or irritating myself, I’m neutral. And not neutral in the ‘just the right amount of self-love’ kinda way. But neutral in the sense that I just don’t think anything of myself. Because I see all these cheesy inspiring quotes everywhere saying ‘love yourself first’ and ‘you’re the best’ and I’m always asking why why why but that part’s never included in the poster. I mean, really. Why should I love myself? Because I’m God’s child? Yeah well everyone’s God’s child and not everyone’s great. So come up with something else.

It’s been 5 years

I remember the stories we wrote. All that fiction about the typical YA fantasy bull that we were so proud of. And rightly so. Our shit was amazing.

I remember all those poems. Hardly any happy ones. That suited us best.

I remember all the novels. All that Ted Dekker and Danielle Steele before we were old enough to know better.

I remember my ‘extracts’, and your short stories.

I remember that one time you dumped me.

I remember my disbelief at the fact that I could be dumped by a friend.

I remember we got back together and stayed that way. I don’t remember the how.

I remember the matching necklaces with the blue pendants.

I remember the bracelet with the different little images of Christ.

I remember the birthday card you made with everyone’s wishes inside. It’s the best gift I’ve ever gotten. I still have it.

I remember us playing dance Wii, and me beating you cause I’m awesome like that.

I remember the nights by the dock, watching the ship lights glitter in the water.

I remember all the walks, and the talks, and all those plans.

I remember how I never really believed those plans were going to work. And when they didn’t, I sighed because reality got in the way too often. 

I remember when ‘best friends’ became an empty phrase.

I remember wondering why I physically just couldn’t share my literary side with you. I still can’t. You don’t know I have this blog.

I remember not being able to respond to affection. And worrying that that would always be the crux of my problems.

I remember the list of your favorite people and my name being nowhere on it. I remember that more vividly than I’d like to. I remember how much it hurt.

I remember all the times you were distant for no reason.

I remember when you told me everything.

I remember having no idea what I could do to help. Cause I needed to help, but there wasn’t actually anything I could do.

You know I’m terrible at giving advice.

I remember all the times I fell short.

I remember old obsessions over Drake and Miguel and Lil Wayne.

I remember my cereal and your eclairs and her haribos.

I remember you calling me your sister and me feeling like your sister.