I had a few contemplative hours to myself this morning, staring at the ceiling in bed, staring out a window in the kitchen, and staring at a wall while on the floor.
It started off with looking at the ceiling after waking in my friend’s house, freezing from not having a blanket but not wanting to say anything (I can survive for one night, jeeze), and thinking about the Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge and why it is such a heartbreakingly beautiful movie.
After I clomped out of the room like an elephant to use the washroom, I found myself in the kitchen people-watching (I was afraid to wake up my friends again if I stumbled back into bed).
Looking at the trees turning their colours, I started wondering if there was any chance that I’ll actually feel properly pure love like that which Christian and Satine felt until the bitter end. I considered how hard it would be to lose that person, but how I’d have God knows how many years before it would come to that. I also thought about my wish that Death will claim me first, because I cannot fathom living on without the person I’d spent my whole life loving.
But then, a realization hit me that if my loved one asked me to live long enough to help them pass, I would not hesitate to sit by them until the bitter end. I’d hold their hand and tell them that until the sun rose in the west and set in the east, I would love them.
When I reached the end of all things, my last thoughts would be of them and I’d die smiling, waiting to see them at the gates to whatever comes next.
Soon, I got tired of leaning on a counter and ducking in time for people to not see me, and I migrated to the floor of the hallway and stared at an old toaster oven, an iron, and a fire-extinguisher. Here, out of the sun and against a chilly wall, I my mind turned to hopeless thoughts.
What if I never have that love, or it is never reciprocated? What if I die alone, all alone, with no one to say goodbye to, or with no one’s name to whisper for the final recollection of memory?
And with that, every single insecurity I have clawed up my throat and down my back, scratching at my eyes and tugging my hair.
Not first choice, not second, nor third, fourth or fifth.
I’m incredibly average, there is nothing overly spectacular about me. I’m not memorable for my slow-wit or my simple and occasional beauty. As for my inner-beauty; it’s buried incredibly deep where no one can find it.
For someone to actually come to love me for my good qualities, they’d have to be around for one Hell of a long time. Of course, this is not the primary issue, but with the good comes the bad. All of the quality characteristics one sees in me will get striked out by my laziness and bitter attitude, I assure you. I’m also incapable of keeping one space neat for any significant amount of time. A lot of my confidence is fake, and my statements of “it’s hot out here, it must be me” are entirely sarcastic.
My body isn’t exactly a bonus, either.
These were my final realizations as I sat on the floor boring holes into the wall with my eyes, and I was reminded of the old saying “wanting it doesn’t mean getting it.”