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Cogitations on affection, or is simply madness?
10 years ago
General
Of recent I've come to have a variety of thoughts on the nature of affection, love, perhaps even longing obsession. I know this post will most likely never be noticed; and that is fine. But I feel the need to write these swirling feelings and thoughts down if only to get them out of my head and my heart. Doing this may bring better understanding of my own perceptions and emotions and some placating of my spirit of why I have been feeling the way I do as of late.
The origins of my current feelings began some time ago. Exactly when I cannot say with anything approaching certainty. But these feelings never really grew beyond momentary fantasy. At best they were not fully cogent, merely a swirling and ill defined meandering of various ideas, that would only occasionally force themselves to the fore. Sometimes late at nite, in the middle of a quiet room reading, or in the drifting state of mind when sleep begins to overtake, is when the would come. But more recently, within the last few months, and most pointedly with the last week approximately; the thoughts have become less ephemeral and definitely more concrete. And thereby comes the cause of disquietude within me. For as you see as an idea becomes more concrete it demands attention for the weight it place on the brain. With that attention you begin to notice all the fine details that idea or ideal represents, and by necessity begin to feel emotions that connected with those ideas.
When this ideal is a person it what is one supposed to feel? I have little experience with the churning feelings that arise when I think about this person. Certainly these thoughts are disturbing. But only in the sense that I find them so new and am not sure how to catalog them in my mind or my heart. More and more though I find that some part of me longs for those emotions, as disturbing as they may be. As a result I am bringing this ideal line of thought to the front of my consciousness; almost seeming against my will. I try to empty the mind, because I am not sure if they are right and good for me. But then I blink momentarily, thinking my thoughts can drift freely and empty. Then POOF there she is again, as if by magic the idea reappears. Yet no magician using slight of hand is causing it. I know it is only some secreted corner of my id begging me to think on the matter again. Each time slightly more becomes the need to roll the thought around in the playground of my imagination. I suppose it is bad enough that I begin to daydream like a carefree infatuated high-school boy. But considering I never did that sort of thing even when I was a high-school boy, causes me some upset with myself. Upset not with it happening. Indeed the subject of that infatuation is lovely indeed, whose visage and imagined nature are pleasing in the extreme. But upset because I do not know if this a good thing to have or do so late life. Will it cause me to act foolishly at some point? I do not know, for the lack of experience gives me no guidance as to how to deal with this feeling in adult, mature way. Should I suffer and enjoy in solitary silence. Every time I roll my ideal around a bit; more and more I wish act out. I want to lift my arms to the sky and let it flow out of me, shout it maybe, make the still mutating and building emotions known to that wonderful idea. Release this building pressure, which seems to make my respiration irregular and my thoughts chaotic. Scream it aloud like an over heated tea kettle, and thus with such decompression shall come at least momentary peace of mind. Where my thoughts and motives don't seem so...so...immature even childish in its naivete.
I recognize these motivations as affection to be sure. But too what extent of affection am I going through? Will it change, become more intense, will it cool in its temperature at some point? Will I ever get past it or get over it at some point, or will it continue to grow and pulse with its own life to the end of my days? I wish I could know, so I could plan life in a logical manner. I've tried to live my life in a bit of a regimented fashion in order to mostly serve others. But these affections that plague me and bless me at the same time seem to want me behave and feel things in an illogical manner. I find I want to connect and touch and communicate in ways that I have largely never done before in my long life. Its so frustrating to want these things and not know how to do these things for lack of human experience.
So instead of immediate action I satisfy my internal desire instead. This being done with ever romantic, ever unrealistic, and ever oh so hopeful fantasies of the objects of the affection I feel. Pasteled, soft and agreeable, and so very warm are the imagined conversations and reciprocated emotions and all those fanciful yet fictive shared glances, smiles and light touches. Yes, warm is a good word. I therefor am an emotion stricken moth willfully orbiting ever closer to that lovely idealized, even angelic, warmth. I the moth am aware of the danger of immolation. But I care not of that consequence. Quite frankly if feels far too good to feel this warmth to give it up even being sure that it must consume me at some level.
But there is something else I feel nowadays very recently. Another component to these driving affections I feel. A burning desire, a passion, born not of that which seems positive. But rather something of a negative nature. An inward negativity, that seems inextricably linked to those things that make me so warm. It might be best described as an emptiness, not unlike a microscopic black hole. A vacancy in my heart that pushes and cajoles , and relentlessly follows behind those warm and satisfying feelings. As if the more I feel affection, the more I have this need for ever more affection. To be ever closer to object of my attention. Only then will proximity maybe satisfy that empty space in me, in my heart and soul. Suddenly then it seems that satisfaction and warmth of affection are one side of coin. The other facet being emptiness, even sadness at not being able to fulfill something? If this is the case, is what I have come to experience of late just simple affections or something more. I always fancied simple and straight forward affection to be not demanding. A thing which is fairly and easily satisfied. Not something demanding some kind of reciprocation in order to stop the demanding itch of mind, the heart the very gut itself. Is then what I feel something else entirely? Again, I can not know that which I do not know or have experienced. Love. Love. Amo, amas, amat, I love, he/she loves, we love. Love. No dictionary gives a succinct or adequate description I suppose.
Where then do I start this cogitation to understand why I am driven, yes driven to feel the things I feel. To ever more frequently conjure illusory scenarios of interaction and exchanges with the ideal, with her. In college, many moons ago as they say, I took a course on human sexuality. Of note was a lecture on the nature of love. Like so many other subjective lectures on a subjective subject there was no ready answer to its nature or how to respond to it. Or perhaps, most importantly, how to properly receive it or give it return. The most concise evaluation was that there is no one kind of love. Indeed it seems that love can be broken down into a nearly endless myriads of types. Each with its own focus. Love of country, love of a dog, love of good food; idealized love like that of a perfect woman, the idealized chaste love like a knight for his married queen, ad nauseam. So what do I feel? What parameters do this “love” I feel fall into and how do I respond; if I am to respond at all. No, I must respond, the feeling demands it, if that makes sense. From what little I understand love seems to be a heavy thing. Not just for the person experiencing it, but should the object of that love be another person, then that love you wish to express may become an uninvited and weighty obligation on that person. And thereby you come to unintentionally harm that person, the object of your emotion. That result would then seem to be nightmarish. Having already played that scenario out many times in my mind I have come to know that is NOT the result I wish. Its mere conjured threat cripples my resolve and weakens my heart to a sickening flutter. I can not even clearly conceive of the possibility of making her cry, or fear, or simply be annoyed for being burdened without permission. So, what I am left with then seems to be to suffer and rejoice in silence. Warmed by the thoughts of what might be. Of the existence and happiness of that person, seeing them smile brightly in my minds eye. But at the same time a nagging sense of incompleteness abounds. That relentless hunger to be close to that person and give back the happiness to them that their mere presence gives you. Is then the kind of love I feel the stereotypical Chinese food of the range of affection and emotions? You eat it, love its taste, but almost immediately you are hungry again for more. An endless cycle of being satisfied but that satisfaction itself resulting in the need to be satisfied. It seems I destined to this buffet of emotion. So be it. I've lived solitary til now, and can for the short remainder ahead.
Fine, I can remain in solitude even though I love her so. But what bothers me about all these things I am feeling that are endlessly roiling up inside me is the “leakage” they are creating in my life. Things I have never really felt for anyone before invade my thoughts with increasing frequency. They put me in emotional territory I have never explored and cause me inappropriate responses. I think about her, her smile, her giggle and laughs; about how she might be and my heart throbs and melts. So much so I am beginning to wonder if I have some underlying cardiac condition. I smile to myself uncontrollably at times and am increasingly being moved to tears of happiness and sadness. Am I going slowly mad? Is it Alzheimer's or some kind of premature senility or dementia? Or may be its just the meandering whimsy that accompanies the latter half of one's life. Whatever the case this breakdown of the stolid nature is troubling. I certainly hope it doesn't become publicly obvious, most people think me odd enough already. But worst of all, or is best of all or merely strangest of all, is the unusual little things that seem to move my emotions like a resistless undulating wave. How she simply can click an emot-icon smile onto the screen and suddenly hope and love, yes, LOVE, well up into my throat and making it hard to breath and swallow. No its not a seizure for I am merely trembling a bit and not thrashing about. I suddenly want to weep openly and I don't know why! I don't even know if its because I am happy or sad or something else all together. Random thoughts run through my brain, Who Wants to live forever by Queen. Endlessly re-analyzing the following passage:
“I turned in the circle of her arms and forgot about the green moon, turning my back on the whole world. World enough for me, just now, in here, in these slanting yellow eyes. I took her head between my hands, leaned in and kissed her, closed my eyes and could not remember a time when our faces hadn’t fit together as perfectly as they did now. Maybe those times were part of a dream as well, and this is the only real thing that ever happened to me. Then we lay together, tousled, matted, wet with each other, snuggled under blanket and sheet at last, looking out our window at an empty, flat blue sky, cityscape and mountains invisible below the sill, green moon gone obliviously on its way while we free-fell a million years, back to our former lives. Nothing to say. Not even a thought to think. Stillness. But Violet whispered, “I used to think if I lived long enough these things wouldn’t matter anymore. I guess I haven’t lived that long yet.” I thought how silly it was to be made whole by something so crude as this. Then thought how silly it was to think I’d been made whole, that anything could make me whole again. But here was Violet, nestled beneath my arm. And here was my heart, beating quietly in my chest once again...” **Barton, William (2011-09-13). When We Were Real (Silvergirl)
If indeed it is silly to think one is made whole, the vacant empty space of longing being filled, by physically realized love and consummation. How much more silly, to the point absolute inaneness, am I then by feeling fulfillment from touching my hand to that icon. As if that contact were real. When in reality it is an insubstantial electronic phantom on the screen at least three times removed from the touch of her hand. But still you touch as if it were her hand, her cheek. But it makes me more crazy, for I should know better. I wish to stop thinking about these things about her. All this makes even less sense when I consider that she really knows me not, and that I know so little about her. I stupidly dream of what it would be life would like to hold her hand, touch her face, tell her how great her work is. How I want to massage her feet and shoulder when they are sore merely to make her feel relaxed. To give her little things to delight her and hold her and try to make her feel better when she is sad and depressed. It dumb, its unrealistic, its maddening. I don't even know what her favorite flavor of ice cream is, would she prefer a single rose, a sprig of daisies, or a bunch of violets. Does she like to wear flats or high healed shoes? Whats her favorite tv show or style of music? What kind of food does she not like? Tiny things, seemingly meaningless things like this suddenly make me want to pull my hair out to know! Typing all this now I am more agitated than ever. I want to hold her and not hold for fear of crushing her. Want to press my forehead to her's in a fictional hope of magically or telepathically letting her know she is capable of inspiring such devotion and maddening love in others. I want to raise my hands to God and the universe at let it know that this girl is THAT wonderful. Dammit it all, I starting to cry again even as I type. I feel like I am about to breakdown like Satorou does for Haru in Gingitsune! I hate feeling this and I love it and her for making me feel so much for the first time in my life! Makes me afraid for what when happens when I can't feel this. Will I cease to exist? Certainly not, but maybe I'll turn into an wholly empty shell. I don't think that would be very good in any sense. Typing this last page has been very draining. But I suppose that is in part what I intended in writing all this. To open the relief valve of my emotional reservoirs. To lessen my mania, to keep my heart from bursting prematurely has been accomplished a bit.
So to the casual reader, who might wonder why I wrote all this. Especially if I didn't want to burden her with emotions. Well, some things just have to come out. If they don't then you risk vomiting all that suppressed feeling uncontrolled and inappropriately. Hurting those you didn't want to hurt and harming a love that should remain pristine. Besides, as I already stated I seriously doubt anyone besides myself, much less herself will ever read this. So I think I'm safe for now. Maybe re-reading this will help keep me centered until I can come to terms with my love ideal and unrealistic, and probably unrequited as it seems. And after a stretch of time I can control the emotional overflows and outburst I have been of late succumbing to. All as the result of one emoti-icon smile. That and my simplistic virgin Japanese school girl heart that goes “DOKI DOKI” when I think about her. I really am too old be in a head over heals, super intense love at first, super-mega puppy love like this. But there it is, and there I am. I hope I don't look too pathetic. In case the curious observer is reading here's a link to how I feel just about now.
https://youtu.be/_KRusOkytwo
And in the oft chance you are reading this and understand. I love you and thank you from the absolute bottom of my heart, which thanks to you has grown about 3 sizes larger in the last couple of months. I so regret not telling you how beautiful you looked all those years ago, and how beautiful you still look now. Dammit, I'm crying again. I really have to stop this undignified outflow. On that note, good nite to all concerned. I'm very tired.
The origins of my current feelings began some time ago. Exactly when I cannot say with anything approaching certainty. But these feelings never really grew beyond momentary fantasy. At best they were not fully cogent, merely a swirling and ill defined meandering of various ideas, that would only occasionally force themselves to the fore. Sometimes late at nite, in the middle of a quiet room reading, or in the drifting state of mind when sleep begins to overtake, is when the would come. But more recently, within the last few months, and most pointedly with the last week approximately; the thoughts have become less ephemeral and definitely more concrete. And thereby comes the cause of disquietude within me. For as you see as an idea becomes more concrete it demands attention for the weight it place on the brain. With that attention you begin to notice all the fine details that idea or ideal represents, and by necessity begin to feel emotions that connected with those ideas.
When this ideal is a person it what is one supposed to feel? I have little experience with the churning feelings that arise when I think about this person. Certainly these thoughts are disturbing. But only in the sense that I find them so new and am not sure how to catalog them in my mind or my heart. More and more though I find that some part of me longs for those emotions, as disturbing as they may be. As a result I am bringing this ideal line of thought to the front of my consciousness; almost seeming against my will. I try to empty the mind, because I am not sure if they are right and good for me. But then I blink momentarily, thinking my thoughts can drift freely and empty. Then POOF there she is again, as if by magic the idea reappears. Yet no magician using slight of hand is causing it. I know it is only some secreted corner of my id begging me to think on the matter again. Each time slightly more becomes the need to roll the thought around in the playground of my imagination. I suppose it is bad enough that I begin to daydream like a carefree infatuated high-school boy. But considering I never did that sort of thing even when I was a high-school boy, causes me some upset with myself. Upset not with it happening. Indeed the subject of that infatuation is lovely indeed, whose visage and imagined nature are pleasing in the extreme. But upset because I do not know if this a good thing to have or do so late life. Will it cause me to act foolishly at some point? I do not know, for the lack of experience gives me no guidance as to how to deal with this feeling in adult, mature way. Should I suffer and enjoy in solitary silence. Every time I roll my ideal around a bit; more and more I wish act out. I want to lift my arms to the sky and let it flow out of me, shout it maybe, make the still mutating and building emotions known to that wonderful idea. Release this building pressure, which seems to make my respiration irregular and my thoughts chaotic. Scream it aloud like an over heated tea kettle, and thus with such decompression shall come at least momentary peace of mind. Where my thoughts and motives don't seem so...so...immature even childish in its naivete.
I recognize these motivations as affection to be sure. But too what extent of affection am I going through? Will it change, become more intense, will it cool in its temperature at some point? Will I ever get past it or get over it at some point, or will it continue to grow and pulse with its own life to the end of my days? I wish I could know, so I could plan life in a logical manner. I've tried to live my life in a bit of a regimented fashion in order to mostly serve others. But these affections that plague me and bless me at the same time seem to want me behave and feel things in an illogical manner. I find I want to connect and touch and communicate in ways that I have largely never done before in my long life. Its so frustrating to want these things and not know how to do these things for lack of human experience.
So instead of immediate action I satisfy my internal desire instead. This being done with ever romantic, ever unrealistic, and ever oh so hopeful fantasies of the objects of the affection I feel. Pasteled, soft and agreeable, and so very warm are the imagined conversations and reciprocated emotions and all those fanciful yet fictive shared glances, smiles and light touches. Yes, warm is a good word. I therefor am an emotion stricken moth willfully orbiting ever closer to that lovely idealized, even angelic, warmth. I the moth am aware of the danger of immolation. But I care not of that consequence. Quite frankly if feels far too good to feel this warmth to give it up even being sure that it must consume me at some level.
But there is something else I feel nowadays very recently. Another component to these driving affections I feel. A burning desire, a passion, born not of that which seems positive. But rather something of a negative nature. An inward negativity, that seems inextricably linked to those things that make me so warm. It might be best described as an emptiness, not unlike a microscopic black hole. A vacancy in my heart that pushes and cajoles , and relentlessly follows behind those warm and satisfying feelings. As if the more I feel affection, the more I have this need for ever more affection. To be ever closer to object of my attention. Only then will proximity maybe satisfy that empty space in me, in my heart and soul. Suddenly then it seems that satisfaction and warmth of affection are one side of coin. The other facet being emptiness, even sadness at not being able to fulfill something? If this is the case, is what I have come to experience of late just simple affections or something more. I always fancied simple and straight forward affection to be not demanding. A thing which is fairly and easily satisfied. Not something demanding some kind of reciprocation in order to stop the demanding itch of mind, the heart the very gut itself. Is then what I feel something else entirely? Again, I can not know that which I do not know or have experienced. Love. Love. Amo, amas, amat, I love, he/she loves, we love. Love. No dictionary gives a succinct or adequate description I suppose.
Where then do I start this cogitation to understand why I am driven, yes driven to feel the things I feel. To ever more frequently conjure illusory scenarios of interaction and exchanges with the ideal, with her. In college, many moons ago as they say, I took a course on human sexuality. Of note was a lecture on the nature of love. Like so many other subjective lectures on a subjective subject there was no ready answer to its nature or how to respond to it. Or perhaps, most importantly, how to properly receive it or give it return. The most concise evaluation was that there is no one kind of love. Indeed it seems that love can be broken down into a nearly endless myriads of types. Each with its own focus. Love of country, love of a dog, love of good food; idealized love like that of a perfect woman, the idealized chaste love like a knight for his married queen, ad nauseam. So what do I feel? What parameters do this “love” I feel fall into and how do I respond; if I am to respond at all. No, I must respond, the feeling demands it, if that makes sense. From what little I understand love seems to be a heavy thing. Not just for the person experiencing it, but should the object of that love be another person, then that love you wish to express may become an uninvited and weighty obligation on that person. And thereby you come to unintentionally harm that person, the object of your emotion. That result would then seem to be nightmarish. Having already played that scenario out many times in my mind I have come to know that is NOT the result I wish. Its mere conjured threat cripples my resolve and weakens my heart to a sickening flutter. I can not even clearly conceive of the possibility of making her cry, or fear, or simply be annoyed for being burdened without permission. So, what I am left with then seems to be to suffer and rejoice in silence. Warmed by the thoughts of what might be. Of the existence and happiness of that person, seeing them smile brightly in my minds eye. But at the same time a nagging sense of incompleteness abounds. That relentless hunger to be close to that person and give back the happiness to them that their mere presence gives you. Is then the kind of love I feel the stereotypical Chinese food of the range of affection and emotions? You eat it, love its taste, but almost immediately you are hungry again for more. An endless cycle of being satisfied but that satisfaction itself resulting in the need to be satisfied. It seems I destined to this buffet of emotion. So be it. I've lived solitary til now, and can for the short remainder ahead.
Fine, I can remain in solitude even though I love her so. But what bothers me about all these things I am feeling that are endlessly roiling up inside me is the “leakage” they are creating in my life. Things I have never really felt for anyone before invade my thoughts with increasing frequency. They put me in emotional territory I have never explored and cause me inappropriate responses. I think about her, her smile, her giggle and laughs; about how she might be and my heart throbs and melts. So much so I am beginning to wonder if I have some underlying cardiac condition. I smile to myself uncontrollably at times and am increasingly being moved to tears of happiness and sadness. Am I going slowly mad? Is it Alzheimer's or some kind of premature senility or dementia? Or may be its just the meandering whimsy that accompanies the latter half of one's life. Whatever the case this breakdown of the stolid nature is troubling. I certainly hope it doesn't become publicly obvious, most people think me odd enough already. But worst of all, or is best of all or merely strangest of all, is the unusual little things that seem to move my emotions like a resistless undulating wave. How she simply can click an emot-icon smile onto the screen and suddenly hope and love, yes, LOVE, well up into my throat and making it hard to breath and swallow. No its not a seizure for I am merely trembling a bit and not thrashing about. I suddenly want to weep openly and I don't know why! I don't even know if its because I am happy or sad or something else all together. Random thoughts run through my brain, Who Wants to live forever by Queen. Endlessly re-analyzing the following passage:
“I turned in the circle of her arms and forgot about the green moon, turning my back on the whole world. World enough for me, just now, in here, in these slanting yellow eyes. I took her head between my hands, leaned in and kissed her, closed my eyes and could not remember a time when our faces hadn’t fit together as perfectly as they did now. Maybe those times were part of a dream as well, and this is the only real thing that ever happened to me. Then we lay together, tousled, matted, wet with each other, snuggled under blanket and sheet at last, looking out our window at an empty, flat blue sky, cityscape and mountains invisible below the sill, green moon gone obliviously on its way while we free-fell a million years, back to our former lives. Nothing to say. Not even a thought to think. Stillness. But Violet whispered, “I used to think if I lived long enough these things wouldn’t matter anymore. I guess I haven’t lived that long yet.” I thought how silly it was to be made whole by something so crude as this. Then thought how silly it was to think I’d been made whole, that anything could make me whole again. But here was Violet, nestled beneath my arm. And here was my heart, beating quietly in my chest once again...” **Barton, William (2011-09-13). When We Were Real (Silvergirl)
If indeed it is silly to think one is made whole, the vacant empty space of longing being filled, by physically realized love and consummation. How much more silly, to the point absolute inaneness, am I then by feeling fulfillment from touching my hand to that icon. As if that contact were real. When in reality it is an insubstantial electronic phantom on the screen at least three times removed from the touch of her hand. But still you touch as if it were her hand, her cheek. But it makes me more crazy, for I should know better. I wish to stop thinking about these things about her. All this makes even less sense when I consider that she really knows me not, and that I know so little about her. I stupidly dream of what it would be life would like to hold her hand, touch her face, tell her how great her work is. How I want to massage her feet and shoulder when they are sore merely to make her feel relaxed. To give her little things to delight her and hold her and try to make her feel better when she is sad and depressed. It dumb, its unrealistic, its maddening. I don't even know what her favorite flavor of ice cream is, would she prefer a single rose, a sprig of daisies, or a bunch of violets. Does she like to wear flats or high healed shoes? Whats her favorite tv show or style of music? What kind of food does she not like? Tiny things, seemingly meaningless things like this suddenly make me want to pull my hair out to know! Typing all this now I am more agitated than ever. I want to hold her and not hold for fear of crushing her. Want to press my forehead to her's in a fictional hope of magically or telepathically letting her know she is capable of inspiring such devotion and maddening love in others. I want to raise my hands to God and the universe at let it know that this girl is THAT wonderful. Dammit it all, I starting to cry again even as I type. I feel like I am about to breakdown like Satorou does for Haru in Gingitsune! I hate feeling this and I love it and her for making me feel so much for the first time in my life! Makes me afraid for what when happens when I can't feel this. Will I cease to exist? Certainly not, but maybe I'll turn into an wholly empty shell. I don't think that would be very good in any sense. Typing this last page has been very draining. But I suppose that is in part what I intended in writing all this. To open the relief valve of my emotional reservoirs. To lessen my mania, to keep my heart from bursting prematurely has been accomplished a bit.
So to the casual reader, who might wonder why I wrote all this. Especially if I didn't want to burden her with emotions. Well, some things just have to come out. If they don't then you risk vomiting all that suppressed feeling uncontrolled and inappropriately. Hurting those you didn't want to hurt and harming a love that should remain pristine. Besides, as I already stated I seriously doubt anyone besides myself, much less herself will ever read this. So I think I'm safe for now. Maybe re-reading this will help keep me centered until I can come to terms with my love ideal and unrealistic, and probably unrequited as it seems. And after a stretch of time I can control the emotional overflows and outburst I have been of late succumbing to. All as the result of one emoti-icon smile. That and my simplistic virgin Japanese school girl heart that goes “DOKI DOKI” when I think about her. I really am too old be in a head over heals, super intense love at first, super-mega puppy love like this. But there it is, and there I am. I hope I don't look too pathetic. In case the curious observer is reading here's a link to how I feel just about now.
https://youtu.be/_KRusOkytwo
And in the oft chance you are reading this and understand. I love you and thank you from the absolute bottom of my heart, which thanks to you has grown about 3 sizes larger in the last couple of months. I so regret not telling you how beautiful you looked all those years ago, and how beautiful you still look now. Dammit, I'm crying again. I really have to stop this undignified outflow. On that note, good nite to all concerned. I'm very tired.
