How lucky can a man be? She doesn’t seem to care about my receding hairline, my unflattering beer belly, my ugly toes, my bad breath, my constant anxiety, my insomnia and my insecurity, nor the fact that I’m 13 years older and 4 inches shorter than her. I mean, fuck. Lucky me!
For the last year and 4 months, I fell and I got up, just to fall again and restart the process, so on and so forth. I was trapped in a cycle that didn’t seem to end. I enjoyed it, partly. Fucking, drinking, writing; it was a marvelous mix. Though it was exhausting. The emptiness of it all. God, it was so empty! What a deep pit of endless shallowness that was.
Don’t get me wrong here: there’s been a lot of fucking lately, too. But the focus is completely different now. I don’t fuck to get inspired; fucking is inspiring in itself. I don’t please to get something in return; I please because I care for somebody other than myself. I care for her. And in this selflessness, I find great peace. Anna calms me down, helps me find my center. Plus, she’s a profound and complex person, and an outstanding fuck. The gods smile at me through her, and what a smile that is, my friends.
My anxiety is a beast. A big, dark, horrible beast. I cannot tame it, but I fucking fight it every single day. It’s a long and hard battle that I don’t always win. So it’s good to have an ally now. Or to feel that I have one. My weakness gets less tiring, my bones get stronger, my skin becomes thicker. It’s a good feeling.
I am, of course, afraid. Lucky and all, I have a tendency to freak out and fuck things up. When and how will I do it, if I do it at all? That’s a question I will leave unanswered. “Play it by ear,” I tell to myself. Trying my best not to push things to a self-fulfilled prophecy of demise.
Very soon, she’ll go on a trip for a couple of weeks. And, although my humble experience has showed me that trips -even in these early stages of infatuation- are the beginning of the end, I am at ease. The voices of my demons are loud, but my heart plays deaf. And I like it.
The future is a deceiving construction in our minds. It doesn’t exist and it will never exist, not as we plan it. Because we can’t plan for shit. We have no control over the universe or our destinies, nor we can foresee the outcome of the ever-changing waves of cause and effect. We can only be like water, going with the flow.
So, nihilistic as this may sound, fuck it. Just fuck it. I accept the uncertain, and the uncertain has the name of a woman. Now Anna, bring it on. Let’s do this shit. Fake it until we make it. Or break it. Or whatever the fuck happens on the way. Good luck. For us both.