It’s OK. I know it is

by maddrunkgenius

I’m in a relationship. I have been for coming up on two years, and it’s been healthy & amazing & surprising in oh so many ways.

I have fun, certainly. I love her, and she loves me. She takes care of me & makes me happy. What else is there or could be?

But I cant commit.

It’s the stupidest fucking thing, too. I can always say, ‘Three months from now, it’ll all be over.’ And that makes everything OK. But six months more of anything is abominable.

Marriage is always out of the question. I’ve ruined things in the past almost immediately with less sworn obligation.

Thanos, the Marvel character, has a perverse self-destructive quality in his love affair with Death. He knows he doesnt deserve her, so he sabotages all of his universal-genocide plans subconsciously, knowing he’ll never be worthy of Death’s affection anyhow.

I dont think it’s exactly that. But I do think that as soon as I say, ‘Six months from now, this thing,’ a part of me goes to work to undo it.

I cant take her with me to the weddings of my Old Country friend-folk. That’s almost the same as marrying her myself, in my weird neural subway logic. They can come to visit me & say hello, but if I travel with her somewhere, suddenly we’re much more than a casual couple. We’re together-together, and when that happens, I know the clockwork inside of me will conspire to break apart & burst.

There’s another explanation: That really, it’s all about the Huntress Moon. There’s something in that, true. I never talk to Her about my now-with or why. And I never let myself get as close to my current companion to let her replace the former as ur-woman. I assume somewhere later I’ll be betrayed & have to live with a circle of friends who know my everythings & despise me for it.

I cant risk exposing myself to actual intimacy. I cant handle Her contempt, tho I have borne it before. One or both or neither.

I am growing old. Not yet decrepit, not feeling the aches & true inadequacies that surely lie ahead, but there is not an inexhaustible supply of young women who will find me wonderful or put up with me.

I want to die alone. As we all will.

I dont know what I want. Drunkenness & oblivion, sure. But I also want to hold on to a fantasy at arm’s length as my eyes begin to fail, because then it never can be unmade by reality’s power.

I DONT WRITE.

I dont make time for it. I dont do it for a living; I dont make time for it as avocation. Even these miserable fucking scribblish stream of consciousness things. I’m not literarily conscious enough to do it. To make note of my walk from here to there.

I have two weddings to make it thru. Past that, I cant commit.