stalking beautiful boys
I must have been a hacker in my past life. Looking into places I shouldn't comes naturally to me. There's too much power at my fingers, and it excites me too much. The way people have blatantly documented themselves under their government names is like candy. There's no malice. I'm free from the expectations of sin. So many people are invasive these days, and I can't even blame them. The only difference is I keep people's secrets to myself. I have no interest in discussing people with others these days; it skews the nature of data. I'm not collecting it for defamation, I'm collecting it because I don't know a healthier way to process unresolved feelings.
It's been six months since I've seen my last crush. I've had flings and hookups since then, and I've done all of the practical steps of moving on. Yet he's still a part of my daily routine. I hear his laugh in my head, how the sun shined a little brighter when we hung out. I want to pass out again so I can feel his hand lift my head off the floor. I think about what the shape of him could be and how it would fill me up inside. I can't remember his face as well as I used to, but those eyes are crystal clear. I fantasize. I scrutinize. I yearn. I hate carrying turmoil inside me. It's like losing land to a war. It's my fault. It's his fault. It's everyone's fault, and it's no one's fault at all. My mind responds with short sentences and straightforward answers and is ready to move on and let go. Yet I'm still captive to my heart. I don't know what it hungers for; I just know it likes to take control of my fingers and type his usernames into my search bar just to look blankly at a private profile. A substitute for my love that I'd never be selfish enough to impose on him. I never find myself generous enough to let go.
I struggle to let go because I struggle with failure. It's hard to cope with the fact that the world can't fit under my thumb and that I'm caught in the chaos as much as everyone else. Some people are sadistic because inflicting pain makes them happy, but I just like feeling special. The fact that I can't keep him on the mantle above my fireplace is aggravating, but I'll embrace the existential kink of not getting what I want. The fun of desire is the suffering of absence. I can only experience this flavor of suffering in the moment, so I should stop worrying about how to change it. I'm going to receive more pain than is appreciable in my lifetime. If I want to know what it's like to win, I have to lose, and most importantly, play.
