I remember being in love. Or at least I think I do. These days it's more like the echo of an illusion.
Just doing a bit of looking back, and the line showed up: ...I got a lecture from Barb on how messed up I was... from two years ago.
It's nice to be able to look back and remember that all was not primrose and graham cracker crust. There was a lot of suckage, even back then.
So what were the good parts? There were good parts, weren't there?
I remember being married once. I remember that I was fantastically head-over-heels in love with the woman, in a way that I had never been before. I also remember the way that it turned around and became an evil parody of what it was supposed to be. I remember the pain.
But I don't remember the joy.
I know it was there. I remember that it was there. I remember the shape of what it was like, I remember the structure, like an empty shell. But I don't remember what it felt like.
It's like waking up from a dream where there was a gunshot, where you jump awake with a rush of adrenaline and the echo of the explosion ringing in your ears, except it isn't there, it never was, it's a phantom.
It seems that love is as elusive as a sighting of the Horny-back Pighead. So I turn my attention to something more concrete and easier to obtain:
Lust is easier to codify. It's easier to identify, and easier to discard when it goes bad. It requires no committment, no promises, no expectations. It doesn't lie, it is just what it appears to be.
I expect nothing, and I am not disappointed.