Fear, Fear, she tries to crawl~~ Up a wall, then down the hall~The owl howled for days. She spends all her time in specified ways of Fear who taught her how to dance.
Fear, Fear had named me once~and it was he who made the fuss. The cat stayed out all week.
He rapped the glass in such a flight~
She would not sleep two days and nights.
Envy came to call once more~
and like Fear two, out went the door.
Words of venom, snakes of lace draped down like teardrops down her face.
Fear, Fear, not welcome here~~but like the time is coming near. The dancer spun for hours too. Her golden sky now turns dark blue.
And all she says comes out in flames~Fear’s all that’s left, it’s what she blames.
Heartache came to scream once more~ and just like Envy, out went the door. Words of venom, snakes of lace. Draped down like teardrops on her face.
Fear will speak, but she will choose~ when to listen, when to lose. Heart may beat, but in the fleet of Fear and Envy back again.
Of Mice and Men…
A friend recently catapulted me on a journey through the disenchantment with love with his insistence that humanity is meant to make us love the ones who love us least and have a great imbalance of only wanting what we cannot have. I tried to abstain from his theories, not simply because counteracting them as bogus will shield me from subscription (or any self-fulfilling prophesies), but because he is a bitter, single, unhappy man riding the wave of superficial social outings in Tinsletown. He did however, raise in me the notions of fear that are deeply embedded in the dating culture abroad. Recently, with my recent trend of excessive double dating with a friend from college, I have come to find the low probability of meeting the proverbial perfect match. My own conquest is embedded with the hyperbolic, tongue-in-cheek quest to “find a husband,” who is a Manhattan resident, taller than men (if only by an inch and a half), and capable of abstract thinking. My partner in crime simply wants a halfway normal man with a v-shaped torso to save the day (mind you she’s even lowered the stakes to non-English speaking, non-Manhattan inhabiting shorties). For a city that takes pride in the tall towers of our skyline, the men are surprisingly short and shorter, making my first requirement about as difficult as scoring a date with Prince William.
However, all is fun and games in the dating world. I’ve met everything from a Serbian animator with three too many moles upon his face, to a South African Matt Damon look-alike who reserves the finest spots in Manhattan with his alterego “Lord Sketchly.” Yet in our twenty or so rendezvous at the city’s trendiest singles’ bars and restaurants, the level of monotony is apparent with each new social setting and gentlemen of the evening. Regardless of their position, most men are trapped in an office all day sending e-mails to friends and trying to look busy and deserving of their six figure salaries, all the while swimming in a cesspool of disemodied spirits. They lack the joie de vivre and intrigue, the appreciation for sarcasm, the wit and warmth that I would expect at least five percent of the population to have. Of course, I could hardly feel as bad for my wasted time as I do for theirs. How can people go through a daily existence for the sake of vacationing a week in Costa Rica and owning a small one bedroom in the Village, where they occasionally entertain a one night stand or rare women to stay around for a few weeks or months. Coupled with their monotonous occupations are the preoccupation they have over their “lost love,” or the one who got away and remarried when they were to to scared to step it up. Either they felt unworthy or were not as financially secure as they wanted to be, or just scared as hell to follow through.
Suffice to say that FEAR makes the world go round in endless circles, far more often than money or love. Financial rewards in their cases are simply one more derivative of fear… if people could just stop being like other people. If they could learn to do what they want. If they could abandon society’s or daddy’s logic for their own passions. If they could grow a few more inches. If they could only stop encouraging me to hit on other men in the bar when my disinterest in them is apparent. If they could only develop at least on bizarre quirk to keep me engaged for more than two minutes. A handful more “if’s” and perhaps it would not be so impossible to find someone worthy for a second date, let alone a husband (even if it is a whimsical notion at the time).