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Monday, 13 February 2012

My Endless Love

So here I am, realizing that whoever said "Life is not a bed of roses" was an extremist-level optimist with a penchant for euphemism. But, being that the tone of my blog has always been somewhat positive, enlightening and, on occasion, amusing, I will not further elucidate what it is that I come across daily that leads me to such a derisive conclusion.

Instead, I'll describe my present position, in this mundane humdrum slave-ship that I refer to as my day-job (which, ironically, is at night), struggling to read the gargantuan medical textbook which lies pristine ("untouched", for those of you "english-is-not-my-mother-tongue" pundits) in front of me, while Vanessa Carlton's "Be Not Nobody" album (circa 2003) plays softly from my nearby laptop in order to establish an academic mood for myself.

Unfortunately, the music has not succeeded in nudging my frame of mind towards the intellectual leaning that I hoped it would. Instead, it has only succeeded in transporting me backwards in history, to all the different times that I discovered that music has saved me.
Specifically Vanessa Carlton's music.
(Well, early Avril Lavigne, too. But Vanessa's music, in my humble opinion, has progressively become more mature and tasteful while Avril's... *sigh*) but I'll get back to that.

See, maybe it's not just the music that has me gazing wistfully at my not-so-effervescent past, maybe it has something to do with the fact that tomorrow is just another in my long line of valentine days which I will spend numb, working and date-less.

Now, it's not that I don't have, well, dates. It's just that I think I deserve better. Which is surprising. Because the only thing (I'm inclined to think) that is "beautiful" about me is my mind. (Okay, that and my 'mind-shattering' er... "bedding". But you'd have to get to really know me first before I let you see my sheets!)

Yeah. I feel I deserve better, not like one of those whimsical dreamers who want the angel-ina jolie body that they can only see on a TV screen. Nope I feel I deserve better because I've MET better. I've met people who have pushed all logical neurological signaling out of my brain. Leaving the palpitations of my heart to take precedence with regards to the electrical stimulation required for action. I've seen, I've (even occasionally) "come", but honestly, shamefully, I've never really "conquered". At least if conquering can be considered to be having someone under your control (or spell or whatever-) for the rest of the person's life.

In essence, due to some unfortunate Pavlovian conditioning, once I "fall in love" with a real live woman being, it just seems mandatory that I have to fall into love unrequited.
And I've played it in every way that I know of, highlighting the broad spectrum of my multiple personalities: the brilliant nerd, the sensitive writer/artist, the rakish rap star, the (pseudo) successful medical doctor...
Nah, it's never worked.

And each time, I could go back home and drown in the music.
Maybe not so much to 'drown' as to "bathe" in the melody and get the feeling of love requited.
Music has always saved me from dying from a broken heart.
Cause music never told me I'm too nerdy or too unkempt or too poor to love me back.
Music never said "its not you, it's me."
Music never said "I'd LOVE to go out with you sometime. Just not today, though. Maybe when I'm back from the peace corps"
Music never lied to me.
(Well, except maybe that one time when Ma$E said "I thought I told you that we don't stop?" just a meager few months before he actually did stop.)
Music never cheated on me. (except maybe that one time when I found out that Celine Dion's "Let's Talk About Love" album did not feel we should be exclusive and I found it with nearly every other guy that I knew!)

I could go out, explore the world, return battered and broken, and music could always caress me back into health. Filling my cheeks with rosiness, my mind with optimism, and my heart bursting to the seams with song.
Music always loved me.
(At least until I tried making money off her, then she turned into a b!+{#.)

But she's always there for me still, I guess.
Not exactly helping me study, but at least she's here to make me feel happy, regardless of what my examiners will have to say in the matter.

And she's the only person I'll spend my valentine's day with.

At least she'll not stand at my door, fingers a-snapping and neck a-twisting, looking all dressed up yet irritable, asking, "Where's My Valentine present?!"

Happy Valentine's day, y'all.

Its your boy,

Fly Fellow, Y'all!
Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld from Glo Mobile.

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