A Day Late & A Dollar Short

Switch said about Valentine's Day: "I used to wear all black on this day, every year for ages. In relationships and out. Because the cruelty of this holiday for those of us who don't have relationships is not lessened by the fact that I happen to have one."

The cruelty of this holiday. Yep, that about hits the nail on the head there. For me, the day has always been one of explicit mourning. Kind of like the Mexican Day of the Dead, only personal and less cheerful. A time for me to commune with all the relationships that I don't (or never did) have in my life.

Although this year's V-Day itself was less painful due to the exquisite distraction provided by Mr. S, I find myself -- despite the delay -- going through the same mourning. All sorts of ugly thoughts are bubbling up.

According to Aristotle, man is a social creature.

According to Donne, no man is an island.

According to me, it is possible after all to live in a vacuum.

For all my self-pity, the vacuum I live in is rather like space: there's a lot of nothing interrupted by a few little somethings. People see me, people recognize me, a few people have history with me. But nobody knows me. Were I to die tomorrow, no single person would be able to piece together an accurate narrative of Who I Am. Then again, I don't think that if every person I know pooled their knowledge about me could they even then piece together a picture of who I really am.

Nobody knows about The Lech. Nobody knows about the funny sounds I make at the dog. Nobody knows about my attraction to cosplay (not even Mr. S!). Nobody knows how much I love to dance. Nobody knows anything about any of the men that I have seen, except a few know about Number One. Nobody knows the last time I heard the words "I love you" from anyone, be they friend or family.

And yet . . . And yet when I get like this, all curled up tight and cramped inside myself, reaching out to other people is a physically painful thought. I don't want to get out and meet people and date and do all the things social non-islands are supposed to do. I hate that the options now are either lie outright about who I am and what my past is or else be labeled as aloof and a closed book because I don't talk about my non-existent social life.

On the other hand, Sartre says that Hell is other people.