I’m an obstanate single man. Its true and it’ll likely not change in a while. I’m quite happy being single, I ought to know, I’ve been that way nearly a decade now.However, sometimes there are the odd moments that you crave for something more, minutes like now when I’m sitting in bed, surrounded by cats and wondering what the hell is going on with my life. To wake up with a beautiful man stretched by your side, or for limbs and skin and torso to cuddle each night instead of having to bury your face in the cats purring muzzle would be a nice change. To lie naked in bed, time not of importance, watching a movie or having a smoke and listening to music. To see your partner after a day apart and get butterflied in your stomach. They’re simple things, but as I lie here on a stormy night as rain streams down the window, they’re the things I’m thinking of.
Mr Fun has certainly stirred some strange feelings from the pit of cold. Could it possibly be that I actually have a romantic bone in my body? I may have never loved, and I may think that the phrase “it is better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all”, is possibly utter crap, but after barren year after barren year, and with 30 approaching at full speed, could it be time for a change?
I was supposed to go to a party tonight. A full on shindig in glizy shoreditch where all boys and girls are pretty. Where my perfect match could have been waiting around the corner. Did I go? Whilst my head attemps to shut down my heart like crusting stone on a drying lava field, locking emotions away, my negligent attitude told me that depression is once again close at hand. Fearing to reveal the truth – the she was young and pretty and I was, well, a depressive hermit – I declined the invitation.
Another party is scheduled for Saturday, perhaps here I could throw single life out and bring honeymooning in. On the other hand, I could just not go.