DurAnorak (duranorak) wrote,

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"I miss you...but I haven't met you yet." - from Björk's "I Miss You".

I have...um...something I need to say, though it'll be a small miracle if anywhere near all of it actually gets said. (It didn't -Ed.)
In fact, I think I might borrow a technique from asrana and just type, without editing what comes out.

I'm sitting at my computer, next to which is a wall on which I've stuck various things that impressed or moved or amused me. There's a card of a fairy painting, a small drawing I did of an unhappy James Iha standing on a cliff, a lovely photograph of a girl I once liked and a tiny Christmas card that relates to it. There's a strip of shiny holographic sticker, a video label with hearts drawn in the corners that I doodled on while I was on the phone to probably the last girlfriend I'll ever have had. There's a flyer for the Star Wars movie on video, a sticker saying "Duran Duran", a tiny price tag saying "Best If Enjoyed By" instead of "Best Before", four badges from a Living In A Box single, a silver medal from LAMDA, an RSC postcard, a postcard of Lord Byron, a ticket from seeing Star Wars at the cinema, and a Star Wars chocolate wrapper, would you believe.

There are three cards I got from the RSC, one of which is a costume design for Oberon, one which has a purple moon and silver sky and the words "have your wish" written in silver ink - bought for aforementioned girlfriend, never sent - and a third which quotes "What think you of falling in love?". There's a tiny hanging picture of Pooh Bear with my favourite quote : "My spelling is wobbly. It's good spelling but it wobbles and the letters get in the wrong places." And there are two wrappers from Italian chocolates, one declaiming "Be lovable if you want to be loved" (Ovid, apparently) and the other quoting "We were together, I have forgotten the rest" (Walt Whitman).

The latest addition to this wall of oddities is a small photograph of a (mainly) Chinese boy with glasses - think Brandon Lee meets Harry Potter - and very slightly ruffled hair, and a shirt, the collar of which is doing extraordinary things.

His name is James and he's asrana's brother. He's a couple of years older than her and he's about to get married.

I don't know a great deal about him; just the above, and that he plays the violin, works in computers-internet-other-things-that-go-with-the-glasses, is in Italy right now, did Philosophy AS, was turned down by Cambridge, can do a Scottish accent, has Douglas as his middle name, has a friend called Alex, hasn't had much sleep for the last year, and has somehow managed to turn everything inside out without my ever having met him.

At least not to take notice of him. He was of course around at the time his cousin (and my best friend) Sarah died, but I don't think anybody was in a state to notice anything, let alone think anyone was attractive, at the time.

There's this crazy part of me that thinks that it knows that I'd be - god, this is all so ridiculous - right for him. I thought I'd put the italics in to show how daft the rest of me thinks it is. (If you're going to go for a cliché, at least lay it on thick.) And yes, the rest of me sits down and looks at this mad part and says "He's never met you, he's marrying someone who's about as different from you as it's possible to be, and besides, no sane attractive man is going to look at you twice except possibly during a science experiment." So of course, I know all that, but - sometimes, I just get that feeling...um...well, it happened with this guy called Dominic, who turned out to be a real bastard but in whom I swore I'd found what I laughingly called at the time my soulmate (yes, I needed a life). It would - and I am not joking in any way, sadly - have been absolutely perfect had it not been for the fact that he was attracted to petite redheads and I am certainly neither.
Then there was Steven (Stephen?) Isserlis, a cellist with whom an odd, four-hour-long conversation started a six-month worshipping spree on my part. Never mind that he was forty, and married. We got on so stupidly well, you see.
To an extent, I know that, had I been born a man, I would have been The Right One for another LiveJournal user. But that's...another story.
And beside the point. Anyway. Here I am again. Quandary, meet hopelessness. I'm sure you both know despair.

I can't ask "What can I do?" because the answer is, as always, a resounding "bugger all". What do I think I'm going to do, turn up on his doorstep and startle him so much with being so intelligent an' all that he drops everything and leaves? Hardly. And yet that part of me I was talking about before wants to do that. Yes. Genuinely. Just like it wants to send his fiancée a faked love letter and be sure that he reads it. Just like it wishes she were as interesting as a doctor's secretary. It's ok, I'll be smothering this part very very soon.

I don't have an "idea" of love. My "idea of love" has often been criticised (mainly by Tash) but to tell the truth, I don't know what love is, I only know how much things hurt. Aforementioned Tash was amazed to learn that I feel actual physical pain, a crushing in my chest, when it's particularly bad. I'm *sure* I'm not the only person for whom that is the case.

But anyway, this hurts pretty badly. I mean sure, it's absurd, but it's no less painful. And though that I'm 'in love' with him is even less plausible than my having been 'in love' with Ben, I'm beginning to wonder.

I feel like writing poetry, so I'm going to go to bed in the hope that the urge wears off. Fast.


" 'Don't know what scares me most in the loneliness. The fact that it would last till the end of my days, or that I'd get used to it.' " -Bashir

"It's like this dream I had about Xander....except it wasn't about Xander, it was about someone else; and it wasn't ever me, it was a friend of mine and......she doesn't remember it." -Willow, BTVS

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