Unrequitted Love is Over-Rated

This probably belongs in my other, slightly hormonal blog - but I don't really care at the moment. It's a little self indulgent, but isn't the very concept of blogging that? Anyway, I can delete it later :)

Maudlin. Mawkish. That would be me. That would explain the sudden bursts of effusive love that I smother you with every once in a while. In my head. And the resultant is a phone call. A phone call that says nothing really, but I know why it was made.
In my head, I’d remember a simple evening. A solitary cigarette. A warm conversation. But when we had that conversation, it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable. But then I recall it. I sniff around for a little magic. Like maybe, the colour of the sky at the time, and it becomes special, warm. I pretend that it meant something, and then, you hear your phone buzz.
Of course, over time, I have realised the superficiality of this strange love. It isn’t anything at all. It’s contrived and petty. But it’s my security blanket. And you never mention anything about taking it away. You almost, always answer the phone. And sometimes you promise to call back, but you never do. You play the part of the heartbreaking jerk to a tee. You become a type, even though we both know that, it’s a charade. It’s a little play we’ve rehearsed to perfection. And I get the blues, but they’re really not the blues, but a little play-act blues.
You know, when sometimes you lie awake at night, and happily pretend that, this is another life, and suddenly it snaps, and you get a horrid, uneasy feeling? Well, it happens to me a lot. And it becomes so horrible that, I tell myself, so what, pretending is easier, dreaming is easier, and it usually is.
Every once in a while, you speak in a language that is so clear and honest. And I hate that language. You behave like just about anybody. A vendor, a bus conductor, a businessman. I don’t like talking to you then. You’re too real. You’re not even being a jerk. You’re just being whoever you are – and that is just so, so alienating. It’s like a fascination just died softly and soundlessly in the recesses of my mind.
I don’t long for you really. I don’t long for anything, because there is nothing to long for. You and I will see that, stripped off all our mawkishness. All our desultory conversations will come to naught. Haven’t they already? Don’t we see that when a call means nothing, and all our talk loses its way to banality? When we repeat our dreams like parrots and synchronize our sighs and our futile attempts at ironic humour? We have nothing. We might as well be strangers with an inclination towards the fatal and the sentimental. Our warmth is artificial, our familiarity is a farce.
What does it feel like not to be special anymore? Not to be the only one who perches on all my thoughts and actions? To not have any effect, any influence, any say? All of a sudden, you’re nothing but a travesty - a little running joke. Your words, when analysed brutally, never meant anything. Either way, you wouldn’t have remembered what you had said. And that, is where it is easy to walk away from this dream gone wrong. It’s just my dream. It’s just my thoughts. It’s just my foolish little world, not yours.
I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. You’re just somebody I’ve known who keeps doing these rabbit hat tricks, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as soon.
If ever you wanted the truth, this is it. This is the real story of the two of us.