I was
hopin’ you'd notice
The way that I like to
Have you around
hopin’ you'd notice
The way that I like to
Have you around
Today I went to Patterson for my nephew’s birthday and my uncle’s housewarming with Ryan Leslie’s “Addiction” constantly in my head, which doesn’t particularly help me right now, but what can you do? It’s a really good song, probably because he’s a good musician. It helps that he also sounds a lot like John Legend, with a better grasp on hipper beats. I still love John Legend more though.
I need to get over my unhealthy attraction to toxic bachelors, John Legend included. Although, it probably can’t be helped in a society like ours, where the existence of pure fidelity is on the same plane as the existence of Bigfoot or perfection. I think I still have a while to go before I can fully escape my innocent and simplistic view on life, although part of me is wont to do so. I think the attraction stems from the mystery of the lifestyle—the wild, uninhibited embracing of physical human interactions that I am incapable of experiencing. Actually, that’s probably untrue, although it does seem like the most obvious explanation. I think the only real attraction is my wanting to pin down those personalities and the experiences that shape such a mindset. Bachelors are interesting people to think, write about, and discover.
The problem with writing the way I do is I write with a robust sense of hope when life continues to teach me that its better lost to cynicism—the kind of hope that translates even to how I approach my own life. However, I’ve also found that disappointment is suffered and survived either way. It takes little for me to “get over” something in comparison to others now because of my one and only relationship, which tested perhaps every aspect of my sanity during the length of it. The part I hate isn’t the falling through; it’s the calm before the storm—of confusion, of misunderstanding—and the aftermath of regret. I suppress the regret to the point where it attacks me unnecessarily during strange times of the day—like a whiff of bad breath strong enough to tear a hole in my stomach. Then I have to mentally slap myself until I can forget again, and remember how genuinely good my life is. That’s hope’s role.
My cousins warned me not to hope. One of them hoped for 7 or 8 years and got nothing in return but disappointment and heartache. But they also said it depends on what you’re hoping for.
I think, in the end, I don’t mind hope. Everything I do contains such a strong element of it—perhaps because of my youth, but regardless, that’s what it is. A hope to unearth a kind of perfection in a flawed world. A hope to discover truths about herself and those around her.
I’m pretty tired to say little else, but I’m sure you’re happy that I’m sparing you any more kitschy-ness. Good-night, then.
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