Yearning for my lover

I'm yearning for my lover, as I have done since day done. But I don't know how to stop yearning, is the problem. An objectivist would profess I'm fucking crazy, for obsessing over men the way that I do. Whether it one, it be the next, and then I'm looking backwards, forwards, and backwards again. Utter futility. Utter insanity.

SO tell me? How does one move forward. When life feels like it would be totally doable, but for the fact I don't have my ~ person ~ on my arm? The one who looks into my eyes and shows me a whole world within theirs.

What does my compatible mate look like? In attraction and in manner? Are they boisterous? Are they contemplative? Tell me, how can I predict this person to be before they come into my world? SO that I can prepare, and accelerate the process?

Until I meet them, I'm making do my addiction with what I've got. And that's exes. Turning each one of them over in my mind, re-thinking if the solid reasons I had for my exits were truly warranted; if time has now been able to reveal our true destiny after all? Scanning through each one, and ultimately resting my gaze upon Mike.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. Mikey Mikey Mikey. The dangerous and controversial boy, with as gorgeous a face as he is equipped with a lightning-speed mind. Incredibly cautious combination of qualities to find yourself laying alongside, if you ask me. Particularly so if the third compatriot is narcissism.

Yes, a flagrant word to use these days, but it still packs a punch - no? And that's Mike. He's arrogant with such a flair that you find it hard not to forgive him; or at least - I did. And do. You just want to eat him up, hoping that maybe some of his brilliance will become a part of you. But instead, before you even realise it, he's got your limbs tied up in five different places, your mind run over and flipped and recalibrated, such that you're cool with suspending yourself in a powerless daze. So long as from that angle, you can continue to gaze upon him. Forever trying to understand exactly how this trickster does his tricks. Again; futility. Utter futility. For he speaks and shapes of languages that I've got to accept are simply not capable to my body or plane of understanding.

This was his appeal for most of the time. The whisper into a future; another version of life where things were just simply better than what I'd known. But his promise was a little crumb that I never got enough of to taste the full cake. A beckoning into infinity. All along, not realising that I'd become his pet, his punching bag, his deflection piece.

But then, he helped me to realise many things too. He mirrored to me starkly how dangerous my mother was behaving in my life. How the friend I'd chosen was little but a drain of energy. Paradoxically - and perhaps this is why I found it hard to discern his own danger to my life - he alerted me to multiple relationships that were taking from me. If he could be right about pointing out the bad stuff, then he can't himself be bad?

I guess, where I find myself now, is simply exhausted. Tired of running around and around, trying to figure out if Tom or Mary or Tomary is a person I need to look out for. Believing I'm so vulnerable I always need to have my back up, and especially so with those closest to me.

At least for now, I'm with dad, and this place if nothing else, gives me a landing point. And as much as I feel stagnant and numb and absolutely useless in life, I have a sense of safety here. And time: dear old time. Can hopefully help me out. When it's ready, of course. I just hope that when things do start moving again, it's in a sustainable way, towards a sustainable place. I can't keep doing the explosions and erosions. I'm exhausted from starting again - again and again.

Things just need to start feeling not irritating. I wanna not give a fuck. I wanna not pretend. I wanna feel powerful. And at the moment, when I look around to orient my compass, the gravity from all directions seems to be telling me to stay in my fucking place. So I will. Long as I need to, I will.