My first post. On this day. At this point in life. If the universe could piss me off like no other, I’m the only one that can beat that degree of heat of my own accord. Know the feeling? And somehow, on a day of trying to design games (with some semi-skillful process), to listening to the office-nerds wax thought experiments of death and the singularity, I’m worried how I won’t punch through a wall or sit in my chair with tears rolling down my face.
Have you ever been in love? Do you remember the first time? I don’t care if you were 15 years old or 32 like me. We have both fallen into the most blissful exactitude. Feeling so natural it surprises you and its weight scares you simply because you’re not sure it’s allowed or that you deserve such warmth, that maybe one heart can’t take it. That you are blessed to have something no one else does. For everything about that girl...or boy...changed you without asking, there was no decision, no thoughtful rebuke towards your emotions. You love them - in the words of my favorite sonnet, “without complexities or pride”. Oh, how I wish I were a poet. Your entire life becomes more important. Every new thought or decision somehow takes place inside the image of another, in your shadow, yet somehow together.
Then, it happens. It feels as though a rug is pulled from under you. Maybe not a rug, not that immediate, but more of a taut string pulled painfully tight because someone’s seemingly moving farther away (though it may not be true - but that’s the fear isn’t it?). And that string is some wound harmonic piece of soul that connected your heart to the other without effort.
Suddenly, as easily as she moved her reality into mine and hopefully mine into hers, the idea of losing that ethereal touch seems so frightening, so possible, the decisions of walking down the street, drinking that usual cup of coffee on my walk to work, to dreams of a home or decorating your bedroom, to traveling experiences that will only have sunshine if the other’s face is found amazed by the things discovered in the mysteries of the world.
All these emotional qualities adjust in some asymmetry that understanding the human condition able to look into the future, by creating some intimate AI (artificial intelligence) that takes over the world is so insulting and useless that instead of being mad at the universe for fucking with my happiness (which I understand is truly my fault), the fools that believe human imitation is possible makes me want to punch them in the face. Right through their fucking head.
It’s not a poetic solution. I’m not sure why I’m thinking of such a thing. Aren’t we the irrational beings? It’s the continued example of how a mind works so spontaneously, with such emotional quality, that dumbing myself down to work as a machine, to predict the future and somehow describe it as a “good thing” makes me want to irrationally punch them in the face. Seems simple enough.
I’m sure being in love makes us soar - I read it in another poem once - that’s obvious, as it can make us sink, but the decisions we make in the emotions we live in are the pieces of humanity we don’t get to compute or categorize. I’m betting each of your stories, of the people you love, can be described so differently we’d laugh at our misunderstanding of the whole thing.
So today, instead of drinking this bottle of wine (half empty already) to take the edge off, I seem to be conflicted in not just understanding the difference between glass half empty or full, but in the outcome of this stretched soul-string between her and I could be the most beautiful revelation of my life. I realize that because of my emotional quality of this first time experience, if I can’t predict my future (though I desperately wish I could sometimes) a machine with math sure the hell couldn’t. And in all honesty, what would my human condition be if it did? What’s worth living then? It could be for her. We could say, me. But the idea is my horribly cheese-muffin metaphor of experience.
Time is made of, or only worthwhile, because of our experiences. So my first post. On this day. At this point in life. I’m mad. Not at her. I could cry at a cup of coffee. And somehow all I can imagine is wanting to punch some fortune teller in the face. What do you do to understand your experiences? Our feelings seem to make us into hypocrites. Maybe it’s just me and the wine, though nothing seems different from walking home today. Maybe sadness creates madness. Maybe love makes us afraid. Would you want to know the future or live yourself into it - filling it with experience? Is it worth taking all what I’ve described, in the stomach?
I say yes, freely. Because I love her more than anything I’ve encountered in my life.