I've been exposing myself to quite an amount of girlie fiction lately.
You know what I'm talking about, right? Despite the stunning and oftentimes messy complexity of real-life girls, there is one particular genre that most would be quick to associate with them; namely, love stories. And if I may be so bold, I assume it's true enough, in the sense that most love stories are made by women with female readers in mind.
I have to say that, in a way, those stories have been somewhat consoling for me.
You know why? Because I, who am in fact a boy, have as of late been feeling the sort of feelings they generally have in love stories. And it's always nice to know that there are others who feel the same way. Especially if those others are people of 'the other side.'
Small comfort, though. I mean, however nice it is to know that others feel the way I do, it doesn't do much to the feelings themselves.
And the feelings have been dominantly melancholic. The future is dark and dangerous, and I have been thinking about how good it would be to have a lasting ally by my side through the ordeal. To know a companion with whom I can share my joys and my sorrows. To be with someone long enough to be able to finally say, "Our time together is worth the price of our eventual, near-certain parting."
"Always I knew that Heaven would be the cruelest of places." I think I'm beginning to understand what Hyde says there. Once I have an idea of what I really, really, really want, not to have it is such torture. I don't have it. I've never had it. And I worry that I am not worthy of anyone or, which is worse, that no one is worthy of me.
But it's no use wallowing about this way. I believe that, however much I want it, I don't really need it. I've survived this long without having it. I just have to keep the desire from getting intense enough that it becomes indistinguishable from necessity.
If mine is to be a high and lonely destiny, or even a low and lonely one, then so be it.
"Have yourself a merry little Christmas...."
Ah, bollocks.
