Sometimes love is this byzantine puzzle that make me want to take about ten years out of my life and move to a hermit’s existence in a cave in order to scrutinise every single loose piece of it. Maybe if I trace out everything, touch it, feel it, taste it, analyse and compute it – it can make some kind of sense. Or maybe that’s a subject that will be my own Sisyphus-like punishment, pushing a rock up a hill only to see it roll down again.

In essence, that ambition to understand love has fuelled about twenty thousand years of human culture, and I know this, but I am maybe arrogant enough to think that all the smart people that have tried to do this task before me got it wrong. Perhaps I would stumble upon the secret recipe, the missing piece of the puzzle that would light an epiphany in my mind that would make me understand.

This recipe that would explain this thing called ‘love’, this ever changing, ever shifting, never solid, never graspable thing that fluctuate so wildly; from being this animal need to immediately fornicate on the spot, and never mind that half the dishes get smashed in the process, to fretting about my sometimes so inscrutable fiancee that is sometime so much like a black box whose internal functioning is an opaque and even grander mystery than love itself, but which produces predictable results once you press this or that button.


The hubris of this chain of thought is, of course, boundless and futile and hopeless – and yet I still try, like Sisyphus, to push that boulder up the side of the hill, thinking that this time, this time, it’s going to work better than the last time. Of course, it will roll down the hill, and I know it will, and I will feel that same sense of urgency and frustration that I always feel when I imagine myself to be this thick, stupid, immature, young child that can’t ever understand anything, and which always have to sit with drool running down his chin trying to understand simple processes that anyone with half a mind should be able to grasp instinctively once they exit the womb.

So much for the wannabe intellectual, eh? A stance that is in itself mostly bluster mixed with a bit of sarcasm and irony, and a good dose of self-deprecation that is supposed to mask the endless need for understanding and want for some kind of respect from other people. If I pretend to be an intellectual, maybe someone will believe it, eh? Maybe they won’t snicker behind their hands at the pomposity of that wish. Maybe if I put on a good act, they’ll look past the sense of drool on my chin. Eh?


Who am I kidding? I can’t even get my dad to see me. He’s an accountant, and it means I’m so sodding boring not even an accountant want to see me, and then I lie to my boyfriend, the one I love more than anything and who has the capacity to turn my whole being into this quivering jelly-like substance of heat and want, that I’m going to stay up to finish a game when I’m really just trying to write all this crap into the journal.

Crap which probably makes no sense to anyone but me, and which probably won’t make sense even to myself in the morning. And the crap has this whining tone in my head that I instinctively want to try and edit out so that it doesn’t become as black as I think all this sounds like.

Maybe I just want to feel like someone here actually wants to see me for my own sake, and not just as an item to be done between more important things in the calendar. But, like I said, who am I kidding? Or maybe I am getting cabin fever because I miss my friends, and my normal life back home. I even miss looking out of the window at the gray skies and I miss the patter of rain against the sill and I miss the smell of our kitchen at home. I want to hear the sounds of Watsons claws against the wood floor as he gets something in his little mind and race across the house, and I want to see Lady lift her head out of her basket to see what is going on.

This doesn’t really feel like anything close to home. Two and a half more weeks of this. The endless byzantine puzzle that is me is a queer thing to consider, and I’m not really in the mood to try and make sense of that, and unlike love, I think I would need three lifetimes to figure that one out.