I talk about love

Maybe I have been out of a relationship for too long during what is usually considered a critical time period for developing relationships.

I have no idea what a relationship nowadays is supposed to be like. I have only my influenced ideas and my damn good past relationship off which to base my expectations for a relationship in this decade.

For me, everything in life, relationships included, is about balance. For me, balance is the key to having a fulfilling relationship. For me, balance, or the lack thereof, is why I ended my more-than-solid relationship.

Nearly three years ago, there was a girl, whom I will refer to as June. As far as I could tell, June was in love with me. I loved June, but I was not in love with her.

I know what you’re thinking. “Really, what is difference, if there even is one?” I think the definition varies slightly from person to person. The best way I can describe it is through a How I Met Your Mother reference. Watch the episode Farhampton, the season eight opener. What it all boiled to was that Robin was almost his soulmate, but not quite, while the Mother was the almighty One (the ending of this series is discussion for another day). Robin, as I see it, is the one he loved. And Tracy (the Mother) is the one with whom he was in love. She was the one who not only tolerated all his little quirks but actually kind of liked them. (I guess the argument could be made that Victoria fulfilled these prerequisites. But again, for another day.)

So June. We would go out on dates on every month-iversary, which I loved. I loved going to pretty places lit by beautiful lights and having someone happy and wonderful next to me. She would come to my house, and we would sleep together under the warmth of my blanket. I loved her hands touching my face. We would have conversations about God-knows-what. I loved our handshake.

These are things that are not required in a successful relationship, but I believe they are very good, small things to share with someone. But among the things we shared, arguments, miscommunication, and a general lack of common interest are not things that one wants. In these things, there was never balance; there was never a moment when I thought, “We could build something great from here.”

If I had to write a book about love, I think this would be a fitting prologue.

I always thought the way a singer pronounced the word “heart” in their song was somehow indicative of their heart.

I talk about ink

There are two very distinct ways to feel about tattoos, apparently. I think there were, actually, but today most people fall under the first derivative of the bell curve. Am I using these statistics terms correctly? I sure hope so.

Before, one either maligned those who got inked or was the one that got inked. But it really boiled down to thinking of tattoos as either poison or art. But I think that most of the people who judged a book by its cover are dead or dying (sorry), so what is left is a group of people who want tattoos or have tattoos. But there is a small third group (maybe more, but they are irrelevant here) wherein people who neither have nor want one exist. But their distinction from the majority does not signify anything particularly important about them. They exist, and that is it.

What I am really trying to say is that I belong in this third group. I have no tattoos, and I have none. I have nothing against it, really. But I also don’t have much in favor of it. Nothing of corporeal form has struck me as significant enough to permanently emblazon onto my skin. There is always a chance, though, that something may eventually present itself.

If I had to get a tattoo, I would really have no idea what to get. That is how I am sure that I do not care for them. However, I have seen photos of tattoos that were carbon copies (not literally, you nut) of the person’s parent(s)’s handwriting, an idea I really, really admire. The thing is that in most cases, the person’s parent(s) died of something other than old age or diseases that accompany it. I would not feel right getting such a tattoo unless I were confronted with similar circumstances. And, like most anyone ever, I would rather not face such a thing.

Basically, if asked what tattoo I would get in the future, I have no reasonable answer.

Maybe the name “ANDY” with a backward “N” on the bottom of my foot.

Continue reading “I talk about ink”

I talk about repentance

Starting this particular string of thoughts has been especially difficult considering the sheer emotional breadth of the topic.

I don’t have many regrets, but among the handful (maybe even less than a handful) is my less-than-favorable relationship with my brother, especially when we were younger. I feel the repercussions now. I feel largely responsible for our personality differences, and I feel it will eat at me slowly until I take my last breathe. Even now, as I write this, I feel the shock waves that accompany actions of such magnitude.

I have hazy memories of him as a child, sort of mischievous but altogether a happy kid. But I think years of shunning him and calling him names and trying to exclude him, all things only the worst of the worst older brothers do, took control subconsciously within him. Of course, I am no psychologist, nor am I anyone with knowledge pertaining to this issue credible enough to take seriously, but I’ve always been good at combining my gut feelings with very good educated guesses and arriving at plausible conclusions.

He’s quiet and reserved now (around me. He may be different around his friends in college. I know he’s different around my cousins.), which isn’t necessarily bad. He even still has time to change. College has that kind of effect on people who pass through. Like light through a prism. But I can’t help but think that were I the kind of older brother I would want as a boy, he would be more like me.

But I’m thinking now: Isn’t that very narcissistic of me? How vain am I to think that my brother is emotionally affected because he isn’t like me?

Maybe it’s selfishness. I don’t deny the plausibility. But I still do regret being a dick to him for so long during a period in which he was so vulnerable. And I think it actually has affected him, at least a little. Maybe it’s positive. Maybe not. Only he really knows.

As for now, all I can really do is talk to him and be the best brother I can. He deserves more than that, but it’s all I have.