I am in my books, in my head at the present moment. It is easier to be in those pages, than to be living outside of them right now. My heart aches – a superficial heartache, really. It’s not as if we had anything substantial. It aches because I doubt we will have anything substantial at all. The various voices that cautioned me are whispering a soft “I told you so” in my ear, and yet I still attempt to drown them out, refusing to listen, refusing to gain any perspective whatsoever.

I have come to realize that this is the story of my life… this scenario of unrequited love. This is what destiny has in store for me. I am still torn as to whether I should embrace this fate or rebel against it. But how can one even rebel against one’s own destiny? Won’t one’s actions eventually lead him to that fate? The rebellion acting only as a guise, an intermission to the true act.

Forbidden love. Lately, this has been the topic of choice. Mostly because of Stephenie Meyer’s novels Twilight, New Moon, and Eclipse. The heroine Bella falls in love with a vampire. The lamb falls in love with the lion. Now, my love story, is nowhere near as dramatic, as dangerous, or as mythical, unless you count the events of my imagination, but it certainly is forbidden. We do love what we cannot have. And the more we deny it, the more we restrict ourselves, the more we yearn and desire. It is only natural to want what’s beyond our grasp, as if it is a challenge to ourselves - a method of measuring our own worth.

I have been struggling with my integrity. I refuse to be the “other woman,” but that is a lie. A large part of me would jump at the opportunity to be with him, in any way. Does that make me a bad person? Does that make me desperate? Does that make me less than what I’m worth.

I know I deserve to be with someone who wants me as much as I want him, but I can’t seem to rationalize. I keep telling myself I can handle the pain, if it comes to that… more like, WHEN it comes to that. Wouldn’t the smarter thing be to let go before the threshold of pain even appears? My brain is saying “duh,” but my heart is saying “no.” True love means suffering. It’s like working out. No pain no gain.

The romances we read in high school are beginning to look a lot more deceiving at this stage in my life. Being a romantic does not mean all hearts and flowers anymore, but rather all heartaches and wilting flowers. Romance is tragedy. I’d rather get my hands on a comedy.

I can probably transform this into one. That would be easy. Comedy is cliché. I have fallen in love with my personal trainer. How much more cliché can that get? That is the queen of all that is predictable. But I am an inherently fatalistic thinker. I look for the ending, the conclusion, so this comedy will be dark, a tragicomedy.

I haven’t been to the gym in the past two days. This is going to be day three. Tomorrow, day four. Is it obvious that I am avoiding him? I feel slighted. I had given him a meaningfully meaningless present last week. His girlfriend asked why he would be getting presents from me, so naturally, he gave it to his younger sister, to demonstrate that the present means nothing to him. I am avoiding him. He will see it in my eyes, the lost luster. I do not want to give myself away, more than I already have. So I am taking solace in books and stories.

And I thought it would be a safe haven, but the funny thing is HE has a part in all of them: a name, a manner, an action. There is no running away this time. I am bound. “[His] hold on me is permanent and unbreakable.”

Labels: working out