So, she’s off fixing the kittens bippy mouse, ah, uh, a little squeaky mouse that makes a bip noise. Anyway, she’s fixing that, so I’m stealing the blog for a moment. It’s odd, isn’t it? How it’s easier to tell a million randoms something, than it is to tell one?
In Platos Symposium, he states thus: According to Greek mythology, all humans were once both two people and one. A male and female joined together. They had four arms, four legs and two heads. One day, Zeus feared their power and he split all the humans into two, condemning all humans to the curse of forever seeking their other half.
I like that story, so does Tilf, but at the same time, we both hate it. I hate it because I’m a soulless bastard forever waiting for the next betrayal and knowing it’s just around the corner. She hates it because she believes she’s found hers, and she’s too terrified to say anything. And because she’s waiting for the next betrayal.
It never ceases to amaze me the lies we tell ourselves everyday. We tell lies, both large and small to those around us; “Sorry, I couldn’t find my phone”, “The traffic was mental” and “Of course I love your dress, it’s so flattering”. But those lies are not nearly as big as the lies we tell ourselves. “I can quit anytime I want”, “I’m not avoiding them, I’m just too busy to visit them” and the classic “I love being single, I don’t have to fuss myself with what someone else is doing.” And we believe them, for years. She’s believed it, for quite some time, contenting herself with the company of another, someone she didn’t really see the point to, because they made her feel a little less alone. That’s where I came from. The loneliness, the pain, the hurt and the loss. I gave her someone to talk to when she felt she had no-one else, but I have things to do, souls to inhabit, skies to fly through, I cannot be there all the time. And I suck at making a cup of tea and just holding her until the rargh goes away. I’m not very good at being cooked for, I can’t believably compliment her outfit or whatever, because she just thinks it’s her. So I’m great as an in head, and occasional in body, person, but I’m really quite pants at warm hands on cold days.
It boils down to bravery, and lessons. You know that TV show, Embarrassing Bodies? We always used to shout at it together. “What the fuck? You’re too embarrassed to see your doctor, in a private room, but you’ll show some celebri-quack and the entire goddamn nation? What the cock-juggling hell is wrong with you?” And words to that effect. But that’s the simple fact, it’s easier to tell millions of people, all across the nation, random, curious, and above all, anonymous, people, than it is to tell one person, up close and intimate.
That’s why so many confessional websites exist now, that’s why the post secret website and art-show exists, because it’s safe. It’s safe and secure being able to tell millions of people who will never know you that you once kissed a Take That poster, right on Jasons mouth. Or that you accidently fed dog food to your family, and killed your neighbours trees by peeing in them every Saturday night. It’s easier to tell the world that you were raped on the beach, or that you hit your school bully so hard you broke his jaw, ending a promising career in ventriloquism. It’s easier to yell it out to a definitely uncaring world than it is to whisper it to someone who might judge, or reject or hurt.
I know there’s loads of things she wants to say. She wants to tell a man she’s known her entire life that she loves him, that she thinks he is, without a doubt, the ultimate in cats pajamas, bees knees, dogs danglies or top banana. I know she’d want to remind him of the day he was getting ready for his mums wedding and they watched Bewitched, how proud she was to be seen walking with him to the shop to get last minute camera film and disposable cameras. Or the time they sat up drinking until stupid o’clock in the morning, how she wished she could have said something. But she couldn’t. And she can’t. She can’t bring herself to do it.
Over the years we learn things. And not just about Hypotenuse and his pointless bloody triangle, not just about how long to cook chicken so you don’t get salmonella. Do they even teach that in school anymore? You also learn about not standing right next to the road crossing when it’s been raining, about which wire is the safe one to touch if you’ve left something plugged in somewhere. But you also learn really important lessons. You cannot expect anyone else to love you until you can love yourself. And I’m not talking “Oh, I’m so fabulous, everyone else is shit.” I’m talking “Yeah, I’m great, there are millions of other great people, but not one of them is as great at being Me as I am.” We learn the hard way that being cheated on hurts (she’s learned that one a few too many times now, I’d really like it to stop), we learn how to sleep next to that special someone with out getting numb arms or legs. We have to learn to get on without them, for whatever reason.
But we never really learn to lock off completely, there’s still things that hurt us, rejection and loss are on that list. And that’s why she can’t say anything. Because he may laugh, (I know this guy, he wouldn’t) he may tell her he doesn’t see her that way (he might, I don’t know how he feels), he may have already found some new woman for his life (I don’t think so, I’m not sure). But, she can’t do it.
An old saying goes “It’s better to shit yourself than die of constipation”. But there’s the problem, if you shit yourself, you’re covered in shit and you smell bad for ages no matter how hard you scrub. And everyone can see how covered in shit you were. But if you die of constipation, no, you won’t be a pretty corpse, but at least you won’t give a shit. For want of a better phrase.
The world is terrifying. All the more so when you feel like you have found the missing piece to your puzzle, but it’s in the grip of a horrific beast. You might get your piece, but you may get bitten, and as they say, once bitten, twice shy.
Bugger, she’s coming back….