Snowbound and Irate

So I'm here, and yet I'm not. The train did what trains do for the last few hours, and eventually disgorged me and my luggage like the sea leaving flotsam on the shoreline. The vast steel monster has rumbled toward destinations further north, and the rest of the passengers getting off here have all been met by loved ones of one sort or another, or otherwise found their way to other parts unknown. I swirled about in their wakes until they were all gone, then found my way to this bench out front. There was a vague mention back in Miami of a ride, but I'm not entirely certain how much I trust that it was actually arranged in the whirlwind that was my packing before my departure.

For now, though, no one is here holding up a placard with my name waiting to whisk me away, so it seems best to clear whatever thoughts lingered after the train ride before I'm either picked up, or I eventually give the hell up on that silly thing mortals call 'patience' and go looking for the school myself. The town simply isn't that big, from what I understand, so it can't be all that hard a thing to manage.

But one thing at a time. Perhaps others would consider it silly fussiness to clear my head like this before tackling this entirely new situation, but I think of it a bit like taking a huge breath before diving into the deep end of the pool. If it keeps me from drowning? I'm not going to sneeze at it. We all have our silly rituals, after all, our empty little patterns that anyone else would look at us strangely for doing but help us keep hold of our sanity. I won't laugh at yours if you don't laugh at mine.

It's sobering, in its way, to sit here waiting to see if anyone will be coming along to rescue me. My parents, at this point, are almost literally on the other side of the globe now. My friends are all thousands of miles away. Just who would think to worry if they hadn't heard from me in days? More notably, just who would bother showing up to gather me and my luggage up? Who cares that much, at this point in my life? And please, don't suggest the crazy ex.

I suspect my shrink -- if I had a shrink -- would consider it worrisome if I admitted that I think the greatest love story of our time may be that of Susan Delgado of Mejis and Roland Deschain of Gilead. I can just see the notes being scribbled in professional concern now, bullet points on my Romeo and Juliet-esque fetish or my self-association with a too-young killer and his doomed love. I only shudder to think they might assume I thought myself anywhere near that important to the fabric of the universe, too.

By the face of my father, I'm not nearly that delusional. If a psychiatric professional is going to worry about anything, they may want to focus properly on the fact that I'm not entirely certain that love exists. I don't doubt affection, familial or otherwise. I don't question friendship. But love, in the deeply romantic sense, true love star-crossed or otherwise? I'm not certain human beings are truly close enough to the divine to manage that, to be truly self-sacrificing without at least subconsciously expecting the reward at the end of what they give. And as for fate...fate is a joke.

So Roland and Susan, imperfect and desperate and hungry for each other, and betrayed by ka in the end of the day? It's a beautiful, achingly perfect love story...and utter, absolute fantasy.

Which, given my particular track record in that regard, probably makes me a manipulative, cynical bastard. I do try not to play on love so much as a Don Juan, for all that I'm admittedly quite fond of flirtation, of the chase, of what comes at the end of that particular chase. I won't shy from the fact that I am more than fond of the allures of the female of the species. But the heat of passion, however often the ubiquitous They would like you to think was deathless love, is not and shouldn't ever be confused for that.

But we are, of course, simply human, alone even in a crowd and desperate for contact and connection we're all fundamentally afraid of opening ourselves to -- and if we open too quickly, you have the choice of being hurt by those who have been driven mad by their own desperate need, or you end up waiting for the shoe to drop and find out fundamentally that you're incompatible on some inarguable point or another. And yet we stand ready to do it again, to throw ourselves into the breach dear friends and dare to hope, even when we know it won't work. To take that last deep breath before jumping into love, hoping that this time it won't be freezing cold, or we won't hit our heads on the bottom.

Some would call that faith. I, on the other hand, can't decide if I should laugh or cry.

As I re-read the last few paragraphs, I clearly need more sleep, and not to re-read Stephen King novels to pass the time on long trips. There's a certain level of cynical bastard I'm comfortable with being, but that's all a bit much even for me.

On the positive side, however, it did help cleanse the palate. I'll leave the emo rantings for another day, secreted in this little black book of mine. For now, I feel actually up to facing finding my new home, meeting my new compatriots, and if I'm lucky, fumbling in and out of love a few dozen times while I give in to those lures again and again. It may hurt, but it's a forbidden fruit that tickles my sweet tooth every time.

I think that's enough waiting, though. I need to walk off some of this nervous energy, and hopefully, I'll stumble across someplace to get a drink on the way.