Hey, my name is Salina. I'm a hopeless romantic who often seek love or the likes of it, through unconventional means. I love love. The idea of it, the feelings that light up your soul, the person who looks back at you completely understanding. I'm experiencing, not holding back, waiting and willing for someone who sees me as more than good enough, to stay for.
Gypsy Reflexing Sisyphus
He said I was paranoid. He asked where the jealousy is coming from. I have no answers. I never do. What I do know is I hate myself for all these feelings I’m drowning in.
Remember that story I told a few posts ago about a girl fleeing mid-wedding because she realized she had grew too comfortable? I grew too comfortable of Zack and his reassurances. Sick, right? Who in their right mind would have a problem with a boyfriend who is willing to sit through your break downs and calm you with soothing words of his unfailing love, time after time? Clearly, I do. It’s almost like I’m trying to see how far and long I can take it before he’s tired of me and my insecurities. Because in my head I am already tired of myself and I’m just waiting for this boy to catch up with me and realize all his wasted time.
It’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy of him. Simply that there are others worthier? Oh, how I loathe myself right now.
It depresses me when I think about the many females in his life who can play a better role as girlfriend to a death metal enthusiast/nirvana worshipper/filmmaker/ aspiring politician. It just burns when I’m sitting at home with the ‘rents at 10:30 pm while he’s out at a party/bar/concert accompanied by females who are unfamiliar with the term ‘curfew’ and aren’t under the age of 21. Fuck me in the ass.
He told me I had to stop the paranoia. I concur. But I realized that the way with me is a) I either get super involved in my over-analyzation or b) I loosen my grip on him and hold back from caring too much. I am often left imbalanced after the honeymoon phase. Bad Salina.
I told him they call me the Gypsy Queen in high school.
Ok, maybe just me. And now I’m experiencing my gypsy reflexes. I want to run. Hop from town to town, country to country and continent to continent. I was supposed to be a free bird, dammit! I live for the romance of life.
I can’t lead a discussion on existentialism and the notable forefathers of such philosophical ideas. Even if I try, I won’t be able to coat my words with liquid gold. See, in my last semester of half assed, barely there study of existentialism I have gathered that life is one big joke. Take the Myth of Sisyphus. Story goes along the lines of this: Sisyphus chained Death up in order to keep his beloved alive forever. But Death, that sneaky bastard, gets loose and convinces the Gods to punish him by having him roll a boulder up a hill to have it fall down again. Sisyphus will repeat this task eternally. Obviously, this guy is brewing with hatred and anger but he will realize that he can do squat about this situation. It is what it is. Once he comprehends this fact of life, he will be content with this piece of knowledge and no longer be upset about being subjected to lifetimes spent pushing a rock. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”
When I consider the absurdity of living to die, I don’t worry about finding a decent occupation with a nice salary. I think of indulging my gypsy reflexes. And I’m convinced to take love lightly. “No man is an island,” but this girl is a ship. I got places to go, people to see. The idea of obsessing over phantom issues like my boyfriend becoming interested in someone else becomes completely worthless.
It’s like I’m lifted by this knowledge and wisdom, but at the same time I plummet back to the bottom of the hill with that heavy, unyielding boulder staking out my heart.
I am lost and one must imagine me found.
