Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Fill The Holes

As I was alphabetizing my bookshelf (because it's 5 a.m. and why the hell not?), two words suddenly struck against the inner corridors of my cranium: Love and Longing. (Vulgar, I know.)

Do I confuse longing for love? Any sort of love. Is that the bloody thing everyone has been trying to get me to understand, without exception, all these years? Seems so. The realization jolted me like a botched breast augmentation. *Cue Puccini-esque wailing* I don't think I've ever had a healthy relationship pertaining to dramaless struggles and unambiguous snuggles. Why can't I be bereft of my emotions? I give more thought to rushing chemical reactions than what they make me do during heights of intoxication.

Hi, my name is Lily and I'm addicted to people.

Or more specifically: A potent presence, a challenger monkeying around in mesh and lace. I feel like an introvert fooled into an extrovert's dirty experiment. Drained of modern banalities every night, I wake up looking forward to tackling another psychological game of the sexes (however mind-numbing the process and gratuitous the outcome). And everyday I look forward to finding someone who puts me on a pedestal, pushes me off and forces me to scale back again.

Because Camus was right: Sisyphus was not punished.

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