Ode to albatrosses

I dreamt of love like it was this wonderful ideal- the way things would be if life were perfect and I were more appealing. I dreamt of travel, leaving home, because home has never been where my heart is, it's always been claustrophobic, and the scene of far too many emotional crimes. I dreamt of marriage as this perfect thing that I, as a cynical, unromantic, unlovable, useless child, could never achieve. This myth, fairytale, that only the strongest can make work. I know happily married couples, and I adore them, I knew that they were doing something I could never even hope for myself, and I was awed.

But love isn't like that. Love is awkward, stupid, and blind. Love is where you act like a retard, and let your heart guide your head. Love isn't perfect, it isn't wonderful, and being in it only causes more pain when it ends. Love will work, if not for me, then at least for someone. But it can't always work, and the fact that you are in it has absolutely no relation at all to your happiness or well being.

Leaving home. Well, that worked. I'm calmer, less stressed, and a thousand times more tired. Its a different type of tired too. At home I was mentally exhausted, here it's completely physical. But my dream wasn't so accurate either. What dreams are? Yes, I feel wonderful and have had a chance to improve myself in a few ways. For example, now I can cook, get by in German, and can change a nappy without dying. But I'm lonely. This place is heaven for couples with children, but the kind of place that as soon as the children are old enough, they leave for places more exciting. If I could drive, and had the time, then I could go out a few places myself, maybe go clubbing, or whatever the equivalent is over here, on my own and make some friends. But I have to rely on lifts everywhere, and have no knowledge of local taxi services/ buses. I'm naturally more sociable than this and it's starting to grate.

Marriage. You don't have to tell me. I know that it isn't anything like how poets, novelists, or optimistic film writers convey. But I've always known that. To me it will be as love: perfect and beautiful in the same unattainable way as tall latino men and real italian ice creams. The men are gorgeous, have accents that basically make you orgasm on "buonasera". But behind practically every attractive guy is the mentality of a little boy, and the longevity of a three legged dachshund. And the ice cream will taste wonderful, it'll look gorgeous, and it'll make you feel like you're in paradise. But you'll never be able to finish it because its just far too rich and sweet. But marriage is unattainable. For me, marriage is the beautiful man on the seat opposite you on the train that you can look at but never touch. You can fantasise and try to work up the courage to say "hi," but in the end you know theres just no point because it will never be yours.

But it isn't that. The perfect couples have all the imperfections you think are only true of you. They made me realise that my dreams are false, true only in the brief time I am asleep. All the other times, they're hazy memories that have absolutely no basis in truth, and are unrelated to reality.

Labels: Flying, Introspection