Limerence

Limerence
(And yes, it is supposed to be unformatted and ugly. At the risk of sounding cliche, these are my true thoughts here at 12:20am on June the 9th, 2007.)

The strangest thing it is, this puppy love I feel. I know in my mind that it has no merit, no weight, no validity, and yet, subconsciously I treat it as the truest love I have ever experienced. I have experienced the dreaded crush many times in my short 17 years. Ashley, age 6 is as far back as I can remember. Katherine, Cassandra, Christine, Sarah. Yes, crushes are not alien to me, but this one…it’s different. Indeed, by just writing this down it displays its oddity, its complexity, its intensity. The first point to note in its difference is its longevity. Crushes, for me at least, never last long—a month, two, maybe three, and that’s pushing it. But this one, this one’s been going on for a bit. It’s likely approaching the fourth month (and I realize that doesn’t seem like it’s pushing the envelope too much, and I would agree with you, were it not for the fact that I don’t want to have it). In my mind, I know that this crush is not logical. This crush is unfounded, improbable, and ridiculous. I know…I know that there is no chance of her and me ever being together, and yet my illogical, primitive, naïve, shredded innocence still wishes it were real. My emotions run haywire and I want nothing more than to lie beside her and stroke her hair while she sleeps. I find myself staring at her while she watches the movies. I watch her when she speaks. She does not reciprocate my gaze often, at least by my account. Her short, dark hair sits gloriously atop her compactly-framed head, and her serious expression begs me to ponder her thoughts. To me she has never been an outwardly enthusiastic person, unless a particular story or friend engages her. She has always been a serious person. Though, I suppose, I would have it no other way, for she is exceptionally intelligent, artistic, and beautiful in her own right. Her mind is like a blanket on a cold night, and I wish nothing more than to fold it around me, to be engulfed by its warm embrace. Her way with words, as expressed by her poetry, baffles me, enthralls me, but most of all, it humbles me. She is one of the first to ever do that, and I love her for it. Her petite build excites me, her alternative look pleases me. And I would do anything to be with her. And yet, this is impossible. What you have just read is the fluffy, unrealistic naivety within my psyche that begs the crush to be love, and what follows is my logic running amok, playing with my emotions and setting the truth before me. I am not attractive by any stretch of the imagination. This I know. Or, at least, this I perceive. I am not a very interesting person, either. My hobbies include the playing of video games, the writing of stories, the watching of movies and stand-up comedy. I am not very social when with strangers. In fact, I’m very boring when with strangers. I do not enjoy writing poetry, nor do I find much enjoyment out of reading or listening to it, either (yet another interesting fact, considering I love hers). Though I am making strides at controlling my cliché-geek appearance, it does not come easy. It does come for her, though. But all this will be in vein, I fear, for she will not have me. You might read this and think, “Oh, this boy has such low self-esteem! I’m sure the girl would like him should he decide to let his feelings be known!” Well, my naïve side would agree, but my logical side would not. When ever we are together, I never feel as if she cares. I am usually quiet, as is she. I never receive a warming stare or glance, or a touch. And when I do speak up, it is usually unimpressive to her. I see her freely speak and socialize with other boys, and I pine for such a relationship with her, but it is not so. I see her do this with people such as John, Jeremiah, and Allan, and I am horribly jealous. Each of these would form a perfect match for her, perhaps, and each is physically attractive. Each is interesting, and each has a social life. And each of these she enjoys being with, but not I. And yet, at the same time, I have accepted it. So long as she is happy, I don’t care who she’s with. Surely I’d like that “who” to be me, but as we all know, it is not possible. Even if I were in adequate shape, of handsome features and interesting life, she leaves for college soon, and I will likely never see her again. I met her two years too late, and so I cannot be with her. I am angry, saddened, disappointed, and disgusted with myself. I find the need to cry, though my numbness does not allow it. I find the need to tell her, though my logic does not allow it, for if there is any chance of us remaining friends, boring, lackluster friends, I must not jeopardize that by letting my feelings be known. Should she find of my crush, perhaps she would be embarrassed, and would not fraternize with me any longer. I’ve learned that if I get too close to someone, I am likely setting myself up for pain, and so I must stay far away. So reserved, so locked up, so unwilling to connect. I must put a barrier between myself and this creature for who I long. I am the architect of my own disappointment. I must erect a Great Wall of Protection between us, and there is not a day goes bye that I do not regret it. And I regret not letting her know, in a way, before she leaves, because I will continue my life wondering, “What if?” What if I had told her how I felt? What if she felt the same? What if we had gone steady, and perhaps become lovers? What if we got unofficially unionized? I’m sure marriage is of no interest to either of us. If we shared in life’s great journey together, feeding off of each other’s minds and emotions? But such thoughts of “what if” are better left kept away, locked into a deep corner of my mind where no one but I may see them, the wretched monsters and filthy shades. And all this I say with wanted tears and dry eyes, with a broken heart and hopeful soul. I am a conflicted individual, my mind telling me “no,” while my heart screams “yes.” But I always remember: I am not good enough for her. No. No one is good enough for her. Putting her upon a pedestal would be an insult to her. And I always remember, in the end: this is a crush, and all of these feelings are likely bullocks.