Maybe the reason I can’t seem to find peace & contentment is because, quite simply, I’m a koala whose native land is ocean’s away, and how content can a pilgrim be far from home and alone in his wanderings? There’s more to it, I’m sure, but not less. As much as I try to forge some path going somewhere, and as much wrestling is involved in such forging, there remains that consistent thread running through it all. It’s what I want most, more than anything, and though I’ve tried to get rid of it, I just can’t. It’s always there, burning like an eternal flame, and peeling back the layers, what do you find? A beast imprisoned, rattling its cage and seeking to be free? No, you find a koala with a weak heart and fallen eyes, a wounded creature whose captivity has bled its resolve to fight. Peeling through the weathered journals I’ve kept for almost 13 years, I can’t deny that that which enflames my heart and crushes it at the same time, the desire clinging to my bones like a parasite, is the overarching dream of falling in love, getting married, and sharing my life with someone.
A simple life with a simple love for a simple, old-fashioned girl.
There it is, laid out for all to see, the most innate—dare we say primal?—desire of my heart. While I may be unsure of everything else, this much I know: for better or worse the deepest longing of my heart is to love and be loved, to find a helpmate, a life partner, a wife. “It is not good for man to live alone.” Countless heartaches, betrayals, and back-stabbings litter my pursuit of this, and skepticism runs deep. But skepticism may, in the end, just be an attempt to mend broken bones, my way of wrapping the wounds in gauze. This skepticism may be nothing more than some cerebral attempt to kill the dream because dreams “dead & gone” just don’t hurt as much. All I do know is that, for better or worse, hope’s stronger than skepticism, and I don’t want to be cynical. I want the cynicism to break, but I dare not let go for fear of detaching myself from reality and plummeting headfirst and with abandon into that chasm of hope, a chasm so deep that there may be no escape. In the end, skepticism may just be some fabrication, a coping mechanism of some sort, something I’ve built in my own heart and head to put up fences and hedges around hope to keep it from spreading like kudzu, to keep it from getting out of control. As much as cynicism may strangle life, its potency is nowhere near that of a hope dismantled.
A simple life with a simple love for a simple, old-fashioned girl.
There it is, laid out for all to see, the most innate—dare we say primal?—desire of my heart. While I may be unsure of everything else, this much I know: for better or worse the deepest longing of my heart is to love and be loved, to find a helpmate, a life partner, a wife. “It is not good for man to live alone.” Countless heartaches, betrayals, and back-stabbings litter my pursuit of this, and skepticism runs deep. But skepticism may, in the end, just be an attempt to mend broken bones, my way of wrapping the wounds in gauze. This skepticism may be nothing more than some cerebral attempt to kill the dream because dreams “dead & gone” just don’t hurt as much. All I do know is that, for better or worse, hope’s stronger than skepticism, and I don’t want to be cynical. I want the cynicism to break, but I dare not let go for fear of detaching myself from reality and plummeting headfirst and with abandon into that chasm of hope, a chasm so deep that there may be no escape. In the end, skepticism may just be some fabrication, a coping mechanism of some sort, something I’ve built in my own heart and head to put up fences and hedges around hope to keep it from spreading like kudzu, to keep it from getting out of control. As much as cynicism may strangle life, its potency is nowhere near that of a hope dismantled.
Day by day, month by month, and year by year, it becomes increasingly clear to me how hope may be such an empty enterprise. I want hope, I really do. I want to hope someone will see my worth and want to share their life with me, but it’s quite simply the case that I have no reason to hope for such a thing. Over the past seven years, I’ve dated 10 girls, and none of them saw a reason to stay. To me, that’s telling. As much as I may want a life of loving and being loved in that way, I know there’s no guarantee. Life simply doesn’t give two shits about the desires of my heart, and despite how well I’ve treated women, how I’ve respected them and cherished them, I still look like I’m 14, and (from my experience) girls would rather be used by a tall, dark, and handsome fellow than be loved and valued by a guy like me. Maybe wisdom is found in the cold acceptance of the bare facts, and the bare fact is that there’s no guarantee, no promise, that I’ll ever be loved like that. I used to believe, in a childish manner, that God would make it happen in due time, that he was concerned about my romantic aspirations and I just needed to be patient till he catered to my wants and whims. It’s a good thought, a comforting thought, but that doesn’t make it right. I wish I could believe that I had someone working behind the scenes for my own benefit, because it’d make things easier; but the problem is that I tend to think about things too much, and I can’t in good conscience buy into that anymore. I’m stuck in this stagnation, and I could be 40, 50, 60 years old writing these same things, and I wouldn’t be surprised.
But, then again, maybe it’s all perception. I’ve “dated” ten girls, each of whom saw something of worth in me. And if I’m honest, I’ve ended a good number of those ventures for various reasons, and in the process I’ve broken several hearts. I’m not proud of it, but neither am I ashamed: it’s a facet of dating. But girls have felt cheated, and at a loss, when I’ve called things off. Point of all this being, things may not be as hopeless as they seem. Yes, I look young; no, I’m not “tall, dark, & handsome.” But assuming all girls want what I’m not is ridiculous. Not all girls are attracted to the same “type”, and nor are guys: I’ll pass over the skinny, bleach-blond, suntanned chick for a cute, fun-sized girl every time. I like ‘em bigger, that’s just the way it is. And I’m confident not every girl wants a stately, chiseled, and exotic man; some may very well be in the market for a cute, funny, romantic guy, and that’s where I’ll be found. Dylan told me that I shouldn’t let my past affect my future, and I think he’s right. Yes, disappointment and disillusionment have checkered my career in this arena, but it’ll take only one change of fortune to shatter the cynicism taking root in my heart. It’s never wise to make a universal rule out of personal, individual experiences, and though hope may threaten to extinguish, I remind myself that life remains unpredictable, and though tomorrow may prophecy misery, there may be a fresh wind, a new light emerging with a new dawn. And so I’ll keep hoping, I’ll keep pressing on. My life may be marked by disappointment, but often overlooked is my own steadfast determination to keep going, to not give up, to keep the hope alive. I hope one day to connect with someone in that way, to love and be loved like that, and I’ll keep pressing on despite the encroaching darkness threatening to crowd out every ounce of light.
Am I stupid for wanting this, foolish for longing for a simple life with a simple love for a simple girl? Maybe, it’s quite possible. We koalas aren’t the sharpest. Be it stupid, foolish, blind, what-have-you, it remains nevertheless what I want more than anything, and that’s something to fight for. At times the hurt’s so great there seems no way out, and at times the defeats are so debilitating that I’m left crippled and nursing my wounds for a time. But always—always—I get back up and Keep Going. This hope’s too ingrained into the fabric of my being to be discarded, tossed away, dismantled. I’ve tried to do all that, I really have: but trying to kill this hope is like killing off a part of me. When’s all said and done, I’d be less of a person for it. I’m damned persistent and resilient, and I’ll try again, and again, and again. And maybe, somehow, that desire of my heart will be fleshed out in real life. I’ll stomach these disappointments, tend my wounds, try to learn a lesson or two, and Keep Going. Really, what else can I do?
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