Expectations. We all have them. It’s part of the human experience.

Growth—true growth—is not taking it personal when someone doesn’t behave the way you expect.

In reality, very few people can demonstrate this level of enlightenment. Why? Because from my point of view, for instance, the world is entirely my creation. A matrix.

Everyone else is a non-playing character. The vast majority of the non-playing characters go on about their lives without affecting mine.

There are a few of these players we grow fond of. Some become mentors. Others become friends. A select few might even become lovers. There might even be a handful whom we know better than anyone, and whom we allow to know us as well. These have influence. These can wreck us, at least momentarily. And we still have no control over them.

Our worlds are in a constant state of fluidity. You may be focused on getting your life handled. Reigning in your sadness. Defeating depression. Rediscovering the beauty in the world.

While you’re focused on yourself, I may be dazzled by a lovely young woman whose vitality infects me. I’ve given you your space, along with your one word answers and your tendencies not to share. In essence, I’ve moved on.

We chat on occasion, but the investment is no longer there. If you scroll the thread, it hasn’t been there for months. Years.

Maybe, with your focus on yourself, you haven’t noticed my curiosity ebbing. Until you do. My attention is no longer what you expect—and you don’t like it.

You act out. “We are no longer aligned, and I must release you with love.” No contact. End of the thread. Dead on the vine.

Are you truly healed? To let this bother you so much? Burn it all down, because I don’t respond as you’re expecting. You have closed the door on the past, and you’re not willing to look back and see how your past created you. You are hiding.

Now, I’m no expert on enlightenment, nor on healing. I am still broken. I own this. Some of this damage has been caused by you. Some of THAT damage still infects my current relationship.

Funny how we keep so much of our past with us. And it’s also funny how so much of the advice out there—including yours—is to avoid the red flags. Walk away. Love yourself, first.

I am grateful you have found self love on your journey. You no longer need others—in fact, you must protect your energy from others. Shattered people. Like me. Bye.

Yeah. This bothers me too. Yet not as much as I expected. I began divesting when I lost interest romantically. Perhaps men and women can be friends, but that is almost more work than an actual relationship. Because something is missing. A level of trust. A level of authenticity. Can you be friends with someone you find attractive? Without letting jealousy get in the way?

I doubt it. Yes, the clean break is best. We are no longer aligned, and have outgrown each other. You no longer understand my passions—and lack of them. And I haven’t understood a thing you’ve said about spirituality for some time.

I have enjoyed your friendship, our camaraderie. We have shared experiences and stories and have influenced each other in ways that will remain. Always. You are a part of me.

You’re just no longer part of my life. Thank you, for everything. And I wish you the best. I hope you find the happiness you seek.

Stop taking things people do personally. None of us really know why we do what we do anyway. Including you.

What i'm listening to:

What Do You Want From Me?
Monaco
Music for Pleasure

There’s this girl. I hear a lot about this girl from my peer group. Hate, mostly.

I don’t understand why.

For instance, why do people think I’m some innocent? That I’m being used? That I’m not somehow complicit in this relationship?

Is it because we are very different people? From very different backgrounds?

Do you think I don’t know her? That I haven’t gotten to know her?

Look, I don’t know everything about her. This is what I do know.

We like each other enough to not leave the other alone for long. We fulfill a need within each other. Beyond that... what exactly do you think I’m looking for?

Are you expecting me to find some “good girl” and settle down? Buy a nice house with a yard and a swing set and a white picket fence surrounding it for our children to play in?

How well do you know me? Seriously...

I am not enough of an adult to get to that part of life yet. That, my friends, is an unfortunate reality.

I am the one who will leave. She knows this and protects herself from it... we have had many heart to heart conversations about this.

I have always treated her like a butterfly. I truly enjoy her when she is around, yet anything I might do to try to “keep” her, will only maim her and potentially kill her. Why would I restrict such beauty? Such spirit?

We are both learning. How to love. How to feel. Psychology of the opposite sex.

And we both have a long way to go before we’re any good to anyone. That. Is the truth.

Don’t kid yourself. I’m not giving away my power or my resources. We invest little into each other. We are teaching each other how to transcend our own idiosyncrasies. Yet I don’t need her—however fond of her I may be—and she doesn’t need me either.

But she doesn’t deserve the hate. It takes two to tango. I haven’t chased... merely extended the invitation. As a butterfly, she can take or leave it.

We have fun together, and life is life when we’re apart—and all of the pleasures and pains within those constraints. There is value in what we bring each other. I sleep like a stone every night, knowing what I know and content with what I don’t. That’s it.

So, please stop talking about her. You hardly know her, nor me, nor what I want... and frankly, this affair is none of your business.

At this moment, no one is allowed in my space.

My sanctuary.

Karma has drawn a line in the sand. And it’s not going to get any better here. Not without a change, anyway.

Are you not disgusted with your life? This was the question that was posed a while back. Being aware of it led me to this.

Yeah. Yeah I am.

Granted, I’m not at work to be liked. I’m there to make money. Yet, most jobs become cliques. And I’m not liked. And not being liked by certain people affects the money.

One cannot remain the low man on the totem pole forever. Not and survive. Nor thrive. Nor maintain his (or her) sanity.

Which revives the question: “What do you want?”

Interesting. I want a challenge. And I want the rewards that come with the challenge. I want the home. And the ability to travel. And I want the girl. Whomever she may end up being.

As long as she’s respectful, beautiful, and doesn’t snore. Yes, it’s that important.

I haven’t craved challenge in a long time. However, since I appear to be immortal, I may as well make the most of it and make a metric fuck-ton of money while I’m at it.

And networking. Some gurus believe networking is important. Essential even. Can someone who cannot win a basic popularity contest network?

I guess it’s time to find out...

What i'm listening to:

I’m Still Standing
Elton John
Too Low for Zero

The final act of love is always letting her go.

Not chasing. Not begging. Not convincing. Just releasing.

If you have to force it, it’s not love anymore. It’s attachment. And attachment makes men weak.

Real love doesn’t need persuasion. It stays willingly.

The moment it doesn’t? The lesson is over. Men think fighting harder proves loyalty. Sometimes walking away proves strength.

Because love without respect turns into humiliation. And humiliation kills self-respect.

Letting her go isn’t defeat. It’s discipline. It means you value space more than memories.

If she wanted you, she wouldn’t risk losing you. Love protects itself. Always.

The final act of love is closing the door quietly and never reopening it. No speeches. No drama. Just gone. Without exception.

They’re getting worse. Significantly worse.

I’m aging. Getting older. I hadn’t given it much thought. Pain is part of it, right?

It wasn’t until I was talking to my father about nothing a couple of weeks ago that it occurred to me. He mentioned casually that on the bad days, he takes a couple of Aleve to get through.

Two Aleve? On the “bad” days?

Hell, I can’t even function without taking 800mg of ibuprofen AND 1000mg of acetaminophen first thing in the morning. And again after lunch. And one more time early evening.

So, I guess they’re pretty bad.

I wonder what’s going on in there? Not enough to get it checked out, mind you. If life is a hotel room, I’m ready to move on.

No, it’s more of a curiosity. Is this how I’ll go? A brain tumor gradually crushing my feeble mind and taking away one sense at a time? My eyes pointing in slightly different directions? That tremor I can’t seem to control while helping her put on her necklace? Is this milk okay? Am I stumbling more often than I used to? And since when am I entirely unable to “get it up?”

Lord, all I ask is don’t make it slow. Nor painful.

Perhaps it’s not a tumor. Maybe it’s a chemical imbalance. Attached to poor diet and a general apathy towards living and life.

It could be something else. As a seventies child, I liken my memory to a cassette tape being used to load those ancient computer programs. Having to scrub the tape back and forth, shedding magnetic particles and corrupting the data each time—sometimes losing large swaths of knowledge. “Memory.”

Is this what dementia is like? Alzheimer’s? A lobotomy?

Many days—not all, but many—there is a dull pain underneath those over-the-counter medications. Just waiting for them to wear off. To flare up. Not unusually in situations where I forgot to preemptively take the next dose and find myself nearly taken to the ground by the sharp pain that slides in behind the eye. Like an ice pick.

Shit, are my eyes even pointing the same direction still? Damn. I thought I’d made that up.

Sunday morning, she held my face while my head was resting in her lap. Looking into my eyes, around my face. Telling me that she likes the way I look, yet I could use a little botox. Here. And here.

I’m just grateful I can still see her. Appreciate her beauty. Beauty she doesn’t see. Her face is slightly asymmetrical. Acne was cruel to her as a teen. And she has an ever-so-slight overbite. Yet, I think she’s beautiful.

She doesn’t come around as often as she used to. She’s disappointed that I haven’t gone to get my head examined. Yeah, we fight about that one.

Plus, it seems when she comes over, we typically get loaded. Alcohol. Drugs. Bathroom cleaners. Whatever we can find, really. Next thing you know, we’ve spent three days in bed with no pants on.

And I’ve barely gotten it up during those three days. Sadly, I wasn’t making that one up. No wonder she hasn’t come around. Maybe someone else is satisfying her.

She’s still in her twenties. Albeit, late twenties. Her good options are dwindling. Her poor options will always orbit her. No one will ever love her like I do—yet that’s not enough.

No, I don’t know why she ever loved me.

She’s still here though. Less so than she used to be, but she always finds her way back.

I wonder what she will do when I’m gone?