What is it about him?
Mar. 5th, 2001 06:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanSure he's handsome in a vague sort of homey way, nothing drop dead gorgeous, especially in thanks to that preposterous Italian nose. He's tall, he likes decent music, he can still crack jokes at the drop of a hat - but you know what, I am struck by that something, that 'je ne sais quoi' that can only be described as a vibe, his essence that permeates the very air around him. It's etched in his body language, the way he slouches ever so slightly, the droopy eyes, the ever-present half-smile, casual twirling of the equally omnipresent pen in the right hand...
He's a smug bastard disguised as a down-to-earth, somewhat shy yet infinitely lovable with potential for some seriously good times given the right woman and circumstances boy. He walks like he's the center of his own universe; he acts like he's hiding something. The women love him and the men want to be him, and I just sit back and watch it happen. It's so disgustingly obvious, and yet I'm not entirely certain that he knows what he is. Dana Billings was amazed when I could recount action to reaction everything that he did even before she told me the sordid details of her own incident with him - it's good to know some things never change. Predictable as ever, he screwed her over as surely as he had with me, swallowing her into the black hole at the edge of his star system when it was no longer convenient for him to keep her in her current trajectory orbit.
Then again, would I discard men at the drop of a hat too if I had them drooling all over me whenever I so much as walked into a room? It's true, I won't even try to hide it or make excuses - I know that somewhere deep down, just waiting to be actualized, is the potential for such ruthlessly simple acts. And yet when I look back on my life and the destructive cycle of my relationships with guys to date, I note a much more refined yet unsettlingly similar pattern of incorporation when deemed beneficial, and discarding when they've overstayed their welcome or worn out their usefulness, or perhaps simply no longer satisfied the previous need for which they were brought aboard to sate. Could it be that I can see him for who and what he is because I see so much of him in myself? Could it be that he is my enigmatic antihero, the tragically flawed whose every touch however loving inevitably causes its subjects suffering? Or is it enough that he was my first true love and that is why no matter what or who else, he will always be my bottom line, my determinant? How intensely sad.
What could I hope to gain even if we did at some point end up together? What is it that I want? Retribution? I don't have it in me, nor do I particularly care. Empathy? Do I want him to see and understand what I went through after he left? But if I saw that, it would merely cause the reflection in me of all the times I had done the same. I don't want him to suffer. As a matter of fact, I want nothing for him but the utmost happiness, and hope that he finds his passion, fulfills his potential, and lives a life full of everything its worth living for. The masochistic streak in me seems to have no end or depth in sight...
He's a smug bastard disguised as a down-to-earth, somewhat shy yet infinitely lovable with potential for some seriously good times given the right woman and circumstances boy. He walks like he's the center of his own universe; he acts like he's hiding something. The women love him and the men want to be him, and I just sit back and watch it happen. It's so disgustingly obvious, and yet I'm not entirely certain that he knows what he is. Dana Billings was amazed when I could recount action to reaction everything that he did even before she told me the sordid details of her own incident with him - it's good to know some things never change. Predictable as ever, he screwed her over as surely as he had with me, swallowing her into the black hole at the edge of his star system when it was no longer convenient for him to keep her in her current trajectory orbit.
Then again, would I discard men at the drop of a hat too if I had them drooling all over me whenever I so much as walked into a room? It's true, I won't even try to hide it or make excuses - I know that somewhere deep down, just waiting to be actualized, is the potential for such ruthlessly simple acts. And yet when I look back on my life and the destructive cycle of my relationships with guys to date, I note a much more refined yet unsettlingly similar pattern of incorporation when deemed beneficial, and discarding when they've overstayed their welcome or worn out their usefulness, or perhaps simply no longer satisfied the previous need for which they were brought aboard to sate. Could it be that I can see him for who and what he is because I see so much of him in myself? Could it be that he is my enigmatic antihero, the tragically flawed whose every touch however loving inevitably causes its subjects suffering? Or is it enough that he was my first true love and that is why no matter what or who else, he will always be my bottom line, my determinant? How intensely sad.
What could I hope to gain even if we did at some point end up together? What is it that I want? Retribution? I don't have it in me, nor do I particularly care. Empathy? Do I want him to see and understand what I went through after he left? But if I saw that, it would merely cause the reflection in me of all the times I had done the same. I don't want him to suffer. As a matter of fact, I want nothing for him but the utmost happiness, and hope that he finds his passion, fulfills his potential, and lives a life full of everything its worth living for. The masochistic streak in me seems to have no end or depth in sight...
