Tag Archives: relationships

Like gold…

It can happen to you, they insisted. The multitude of readers, many who read my tales of woe from the dating front-the ones who relieved their memories vicariously through my written words; they all told me that these things do and will happen. They told me to be patient, that someday, one day, that mysterious man would appear and everything would be like gold..
And then he came into the picture. And then he appeared, like vapour, like mist-an apparition. And I could not quite believe it, he didn’t appear solid; it was hard for me, oh, so hard, to believe, to trust that maybe those readers-all of you who steadfastly shared, stood by me and whispered your words of encouragement and solidarity from so far away; to believe that maybe you were right.. 
But you spoke the truth-the wisdom, all of that precious experience. You were right, these things do happen-a man, a good one, one who thinks the world of me would walk into my life-just like that, a momentous instant; just like that and my life would begin to alter. Just like that-a plain black and white world, shades of grey colouring every perspective-it would turn to gold…
My life is now divided; pre and post. My new life now involves him-it is no longer a selfish one-one where only I mattered, one where there was only me in a sphere, in a bubble. I now have to think about another person’s views, another persons’ life and his choices and his hopes. My life’s course is no longer on that same dreary track.. There will be different priorities, different outcomes. Pre and post; what a difference a day, a second, a moment makes…
It has happened; I have met him. It feels completely right-as he said, there is a feeling of familiarity. It is like coming home. The long journey, the arduous trek, it is the feeling, that indescribable joy of returning home after a long absence. I have come home and it feels like gold… 

The ones that got away… A paean to loves lost

Should I rejoice at the fact that lost loves usually mean that these men were not ever going to be right for me? Could I in all honesty stake the claim that I saved myself from heartbreak because these men would have eventually broken my heart? It would seem to be a case of sour grapes, a means of consolation for the denouement of what could have been and never was…
It is perhaps true that these men were never right for me in the first place; that I mistook desperation for the blooming of love and so considered these men to be candidates for love interests when they were never eminently suitable. I was willing to put aside the glaring, major differences betwixt us just so I could be a part of something noble, something bigger; a relationship. Those were the days when I believed I could only find myself in the context of being in the bubble of a blissful relationship. 
So perhaps I should be full of relief that these men, these nascent relationships never took off and remained only as possibilities in my mind. In the midst of relieving the past, I should perhaps recite prayers of thanksgiving that these men saw through me and decided against a relationship. For what would be the alternative? A few months, a year of having to hide the growing dread of a wrong choice? A continually engorged yearning for something different, someone else, before boredom and apathy tear asunder what should never have been? 
There is a trade off; to linger upon the loves that could have been means that there is stagnation-a refusal to acknowledge what is so glaringly wrong about my self that is so repulses other men. For to dwell on the past is to refuse to live in the present. 
Memoirs and memories of the distant past… What do they seek to achieve? I am no longer the person I was; the one so blinded to the glaring imperfections of men that I could choose so easily to ignore them and to think of love and lives intertwined with men who were so glaringly, so obviously jerks. One could say the past is in the past and to dredge the murky memories is akin to sadistic masochistic torture. But I learn from the past.. I learn from love’s labour lost. I learn what I am and I learn what I no longer want. I learn that to settle is to be live with the perpetual fevered daze of asking what could be and to forever keep looking over my shoulder and wondering if I could have done better.
Of course the inverse is true… I could have learnt to live with the glaring imperfections; something akin to love, affection maybe, could have sprouted. I may have even been happy… Any one of those men… Would they have made me happy? 
There are no prospects for love on my horizon… And maybe that is the primary reason I still think about those men; the ones who got away. Not because, as I claimed earlier, I can learn from them and those times, but because they represent a period when I had prospects, when I had men, when I could choose. Currently there is no choice, no avenues open for me. It is the choice between being single and being alone which are available to me.
There are indubitably lessons to learn and lessons which have been learnt. I learnt that my nature makes me ridiculously open to being played by cads. I learnt that I am no different from the stereotype of gay men of my race, despite how much I decry that claim. I learnt that men are never serious about relationships, right from the start. I learnt that men who claim to be are often lying. 
Once upon a time, as the stories go, I was younger and more reckless…. How that sorry vignette flowed if of course well documented in my previous writings-with the rising if hopes and the inevitable crushing of dreams. How it ends, is however another tale. One that is still being written. I know better than to hope for a happy ending…. The loves that are lost can never be reclaimed. What I leave behind with the memories of those haunted loves is the naïveté of youth; the golden expectation for everything to be ok, for the happy ending to ensue. Life, it would seem, is not a tale with a guaranteed happy ending. 

somebody to love.

It’s universal really, the desire to pair up. Seemingly only the strongest people, or the ones who are most delusional can afford to remain single. And even then, they are never alone. Loneliness is a state of mind but isolation is physical.
My problem with finding somebody to love stems from a lot of factors. Some are universal, very much a product of my ethnicity, the way I was brought up, some are entirely a result of my own beliefs. 
To focus on the universal problems is to basically not add anything new to the conversation surrounding race and racism. Everything that needs to be said has been said, and in far more eloquent terms. All I can really add is that my own empirical evidence tells me that it is true what they say; minorities do finish last. 
But my own belief system… Well that’s another story. It’s entirely unique to me, or not really, I am not sure. In a sense, my upbringing, with an emphasis on security and finding a provider has caused me to develop a predilection for only one type of man. 
This man is almost always white. He is always successful, the kind of man who has already reached the pinnacle of his career pathway. He is well to do, and he is stable and secure, a safe haven basically. This man is usually outwardly confident, he’s lived a full life, basically, and he has the fruits of that labour. 
I know that makes me sort of (well let’s not mince words, it DOES) make me a gold digger. It’s not his wealth which attracts me although, yes, that is a part of his allure, but it’s the fact that his life trajectory is the one I want for myself. By seeking men of this calibre, it’s as though I want some of his success to rub off on me. I want the guidance, the mentoring, to have someone who has done it all tell me that I can do it. As though by being with that type of man, I can live vicariously through his experiences.
A lot of this stems from the fact that I am insecure; that I’ve never been able to objectively look at my own life and say that I am a success. I seem to reserve my most harsh judgements for myself. But it is true that I have not lived as much as these men. I never grabbed the opportunities, took a leap of faith. I’ve lived a safe life, a cautious one. It’s no wonder that tales of a life lived to the utmost thrill me. I always think that I will someday do those things, but at the age of 31, I think I can safely say that those days have passed me by. 
And of course, these men I am attracted to.. Obviously they want someone who’s lived as much as they have.. Discount the racial issue, remove the physical, and really, these men reject me because I am not like them. Like attracts like and because I am not like them, how can I ever attract them? 
Of course these men are attracted to me initially because of my body; years of gym work will give you that, but the longer they stay with me, the more they realise how little I’ve lived, how insecure I am. And insecurity breeds desperation and both are decidedly not sexy. 
Whatever intentions I had originally, the intention to stay aloof, keep an arms length away from the beau du jour, melts away as desperation sets in. Each time, I fall for the man I am currently dating, not because he’s perfect, but because he’s there and I may lose my chance forevermore if I don’t resort to, in a sense, whoring myself. Thus, I contribute to the racial stereotype… There is no excuse I can give; my own desperation seems so big at that time that it trumps the bigger picture of societal mores, it dwarves my desire to change that stereotype. 
I know that these men say things they don’t mean just to get what they want. I know the cunning words they use, and yet I keep falling for them. Is that stupidity? Isn’t that being crazy? To repeat the same mistake over and over again. I know that these men are lying when they tell me they want me. All they want from me is my body, for one night. And I allow myself to fall for their meaningless words, all for want of a chance.
I find myself in the midst of the same process with another man. Really, clones of all the previous men. And it disgusts me the way I am throwing myself at him. It disgusts me and yet I cannot stop doing it; my mind keeps flashing to that alternative of being alone, isolated, of never ever being able to find somebody to love, and so I reach for the phone and take another butt selfie to send to him, all to entrance him. What for? He may say that he finds me sexy, that he wants ‘it’ but he doesn’t really mean it; and even if he did, he wants ‘it’ and not me. 
I can be rational at the moment, but how long will this period of cold rationale last? Sooner or later, I will cave in… And it will go on until he cuts the cord and I move on to the next man. Who will treat me the same way. It’s a cycle, one which will never end… 

Sex bomb..

Sex is the most intimate of acts. During that act, we are naked, vulnerable, shed of our outer defences. And yet, we seem to have that propensity to commit the act of sex minus any kind of intimacy. What should be special is now mundane, stripped bare of any kind of meaning. When sex becomes commodified, once it becomes separate from emotion, then can we really call it an act of love anymore?
It may be anachronistic of me to think of sex in such old fashioned terms; sex and love in the modern age are two disparate things. It used to be that sex was the most precious, the most special and intimate gift that one could give. It used to be an offering of oneself, body and soul, naked and stripped down to another. Not anymore. 
The era of free love and of ownership of ones body removed intimacy from sex. Sex became an act, one of rebellion against societal norms. The prevailing ethos became ‘I can have sex with whomever I choose’ and so sex itself became meaningless, worthless, just another part of life.
Of course I am not suggesting a return to the stuffy Victorian ages where the sexual mores required marriage before one could consummate. And I am not old fashioned enough to suggest that sex is not an important part of a relationship. But what I decry is how relationships work back to front these days. People have sex first before really getting to know one another.
And whilst this is perhaps not the prevailing trend for heterosexual couplings, it seems to be so for gay men. It seems, these days, that gay men are not interested in forming a relationship until the condition of good sexual chemistry is met. But good sexual chemistry comes, not from how good a person is at the mechanics of sex, but from the connection that comes from knowing each other intimately, so that there is trust. Without trust, the act of sex is reduced to mechanical thrusting actions; it is distilled into cock size, movements, eagerness in bed… It’s lust, not love which rules in this circumstances.
That isn’t to say that lust isn’t enough to initiate a relationship. But lust lacks longevity. What is begun with lust usually cannot sustain a true relationship. Lust is a good thing to have, but lust is fickle. If you lust after someone, it doesn’t mean you actually even like the other person. Whatever sex you have in this case, however good it is, has no bearing on you as a person. When relationships are based on mutual lust, then really, what is involved in the relationship isn’t personality, but body parts.
Obviously I have no hard data to back my findings. There are of course going to be cases of long lasting relationships which begun from an act of lust. As there will be relationships born from love but lacking lust. How a relationship begins to germinate is usually a combination of both. And it shouldn’t need to be said that one is free to do whatever one likes with ones body.
I, of course, have problems removing emotions from sex. It’s part of who I am. Where this gets me into trouble is when my desire to be liked and to be wanted conflates with my desire to be in a relationship. And it usually ends up with me having sex with a man very early on. I can expound and theorise over why I continually do this; but it usually boils down to the fact that I see myself as nothing special and nothing more than a body. I panic because I cannot imagine a man will continue wanting me once he gets to know the ‘real’ me and so to keep him enchanted, I rely on my body and sex to keep him interested. It usually fails, because a man, any man, can see through desperation, can see through the flimsy curtain of my faked self confidence. I rely on sex because I have nothing else to rely on. I don’t lead any kind of interesting life. My innermost thoughts are often a jumbled mess of confusion and self depreciation; so why would that keep a man interested? In giving in to lust, what I am really doing is hiding my true self because… Well, because I don’t want to be rejected. I mentioned before about being able to be humorous about my countless rejections; and that humour is in itself, a defence mechanism. 
I always start out with the best of intentions; to not sleep with a man before getting to know him properly. What usually happens is that after a while, sometimes whilst on the first date even, I get a rising sense of panic that I am going to lose this mans’ interest, as though the onus on keeping the interest alive is on me; as though the current man is the be all and end all of potential suitors. So I take up his proposition, and very few men do not make indecent propositions, and end up sleeping with him and then I think that act of sex is validation that he likes me and what usually occurs is the usual self destructive cycle of my insecurity growing to gargantuan proportions and I turn into what is charmingly labelled by gay men, a ‘lesbian’, which means a gay man who is so eager to be in a relationship that he begins planning the future at the second date. Or as some gay men put it, being a gay Asian… 
Whilst I can see that going down this path with men is a sure fire way to end things; I often cannot stop myself from doing it. My mind twists into this state where I assume that all men must think like me, wherein they place equal weights as I do on sex. That by having sex, we’ve sealed some kind of covenant to begin dating. Often that isn’t the case. Not because, as I’ve alluded to in the past, of the fact that I am attracted to a certain type of man-the very kind who will never see me as an equal, but because men here don’t confuse sex with love. Sex is sex, and gay men have become so detached from it that they can have sex and not have it mean anything. That’s all there is to it. It’s not because they are jerks or anything, it’s just that they had an itch and they wanted it scratched and I was there and willing and that’s that. 
There is very little point, as I’ve learnt, complaining about how little sex means these days, or how men treat me badly. At the end of the day, it is often my fault for portraying myself as willing, eager and able. The plain unvarnished truth is that I do not hold myself in any kind of esteem; I constantly wish I was someone else and if I fail to appreciate myself, then who will? Of course, this boils down to the big question; how the fuck does one gain self confidence and appreciate oneself more? Isn’t this an either or situation? Either one has confidence or one doesn’t, either one appreciates who he/she is or one doesn’t. 
Knowing all this doesn’t really help me… Forewarned is not necessarily forearmed. As long as I continue meeting men without feeling a semblance of self confidence, I will always fuck things up. Sex is not any kind of covenant for love… Plain and simple. If I want to be appreciated for who I am, then I need to stop having sex with men early on in the game. 

Help.

I know it isn’t helpful for me to go with this. There is no benefit to clinging on to whatever shred of affection he has for me. 
Obviously when there is a ‘this’ situation, there is always a ‘him’. Why is it i perpetually get myself into these scrapes? With men who are not worth any shred of my time. Why is it I persist in wondering and shedding tears over a man who is so obviously not into me?
It didn’t start of this way at all. No. I can search myself and honestly say that I never saw him, in the beginning, as anything more than what he should have been; a random encounter. In fact, meeting him so close on the heels of that other him, he should not be named, it was pretty evident to me that I was only meeting him as a kind of salve on my burning heart. 
How did I know the sex would turn out to be the best I’d ever had? I had no inkling, no way of knowing, but even after the first time, I knew he would never see me as anything more than just a casual fuck buddy. After all, we lived in different states, separated by a land mass 700 km in breadth. He had his own life, back there, in his reality. I was never going to be anything more than a dirty weekend, a hedonistic fantasy. I was never going to be anything more than a body for him.
How then did this eventuate? Where did the events turn? If I had known, as I claim to, right from the start what this was going to be, then why do I keep thinking of a future with him? 
In a lot of respects, I am a typical gay asian man. The kind who immediately forms an attachment after a few encounters. It is a prominent reason why asian gay men have such a poor reputation.. That we cannot seemingly be laid back and take things as they come. That we are so desperate for a relationship that we immediately begin to fantasise about the future after a date or two. I’ve only ever met him twice, what is this attachment doing here? I know nothing much about him, how does one form an attachment to an idealised version of a man?
It comes because of the isolation of my life; I imagine gay asian men must be very isolated; lacking their own gay family; not having gay friends to tell them the way it should be. We form dreamy attachments to unworthy men because we feel like we can’t do better; that any man who shows us just that little scrap of attention must like us. And we are so so grateful for that attention that we bend over backwards to accommodate that man, however unworthy he is.
If I was a rational person, and I am not, I would know well enough to let sleeping dogs lie. There is no point in pointedly asking him what he wants, whether he sees me as more than an ‘it’. What would the point be? If he said yes, where would we be? The mater of distance remains and if he says no, then where would that leave me? To have that fantasy destroyed… Could I take that coming so close after that previous heartache? 
If he said no, then wouldn’t it just mean another name to add to that list of men who have rejected me etched on my heart? Wouldn’t it be better for my well being, for my sanity to hew to this status quo of not knowing, of being at his beck and call? What better can I hope for?
Reading over the previous paragraphs makes me realise that I didn’t learn anything from that other man. Whose parting words I still remember; ‘I can’t do it for you, take better care of yourself.’ And I haven’t. If I was taking better care of my heart, then I wouldn’t even be bothered about this man. I would be able to coldly, calmly dismiss him as being Flawed. I could move on. I could choose to see him or choose to forever ignore him. I wouldn’t be stuck in this limbo of wanting and not wanting him. I wouldn’t be so confused, going over the clues he’s left behind, trying to read into what he said and what he did not. The fact that I cannot just let it go is just further evidence of how unprepared I am for an actual relationship..
And perhaps that is the lesson from this man. That until I can separate love and lust; what I want and what I am likely to get; what is and is not real, then and only then can I have a relationship. I can only have that happy bliss if I stop seeking it out, stop forcing it. I can only have it when I can stop looking for my own happiness in other people. No man could ever make me happy. No one man would ever be enough for me at this moment. 

Winners and losers

I’ve always wondered how far I would go, were I on a series of Top Model… Notwithstanding the complete absurdity of that situation, would I be one of those people who completely crack under pressure? Would I be the bitch, fun or dramatic? Would I be one of those people who perform well and then fall flat? 

With every series of Top Model, it’s fairly clear that the contestants are slotted into neat little personality boxes. They are edited into those tiny little niches; the bitch, the excellent performer, the awkward one, the one who has zero confidence, the one who doesn’t know what he/she possesses… The reality is of course, no one person is just one thing. A person can be both over and under confident just as a person can be completely nice and then become a raging bitch; we are all shades of grey and never completely dominantly one thing or another.
I know, for instance, that I can be both confident and insecure, depending on the day, and depending on the situation. Currently, I am suffering from a crippling sense of insecurity due to a distinct under performance in my degree. I started of being overly confident, thinking that I could do this and do it extremely well. I had very high expectations, and I haven’t met them.. 
But that really is the story of my life; the one underlying thread which binds all the different stages of my life-wherein I start of being completely, supremely confident in my own abilities and end up disappointing myself and not caring to try anymore. I give up, even if logically, if I had put in more effort, I might actually have achieved my aspirations. One might question the rationality of continually expecting big things from myself given the constant disappointment; it’s as though I completely forget my own limitations… 
Sure, there are certain aspirations that I had when I was younger and perhaps more naive, less jaded-expectations about love, about my career, about life in general which I now of course find laughably stupid. No matter how highly I thought of myself back then, there was no way I was going to end up as one of those high fashion male mannequins on the runways of Milan and Paris and end up shacking up with a rich gay British aristocrat. There was no way I was going to be on the social pages of Tatler, dressed to the nines, clutching a man and a glass of champagne, laughing uproariously at the poor peasants. There was no way I was going to end up a corporate climber and become a millionaire with several houses, like my parents wanted for me, before I hit 30. I had these aspirations for so long as a teenager, into my early 20s but I never worked towards them.
Of course now I can see that it was partly the fear of rejection which stopped me in my tracks. Whilst I probably could never have become that kind of model, there was nothing really standing in my way of becoming, say an Asian acting heartthrob. Had I committed to going for auditions, going to acting school, even joining pageants, however embarrassing it is for men to do that, I could have ended up somewhere. But I let the fear of the unknown, of becoming a bigger disappointment in my parents eyes, of the shame of failure get to me and that’s why I have ended up here. 
Take love for instance; I used to write a whole lot on love and relationships; I used to have people who read my blog because I wrote about love and relationships. But then I realised that I really know jack shit about love and relationships. I know nothing about men and the ways of the world, for behind my jaded, weary exterior lies a man who still passionately believes in love, in the transformative power of love, in loves ability to uplift and to encourage. And perhaps the reasons for me wanting to be in love are selfish; for support, to find a man who will believe in me more than I believe in myself. To find a man who will continually support me and push me to take chances. To find a man so that I do not have to come back to an empty place and a cold dark house. 
I always thought I was one of those lucky men who wouldn’t be on the meat market for long… I always thought I had such charm, such good looks, such great nurturing qualities that it wouldn’t take long for a tall, dark and handsome stranger to whisk me away and change my life. Those were my expectations of love and I’ve since learnt that you cannot expect love to transform you-it doesn’t. You cannot expect to find a partner who will support you believe in you because nobody wants to continually have to believe in and support someone else. You cannot expect to find a tall, dark and handsome partner because all the tall, dark and handsome men know their worth and are more interested in sex than love. That is to say, one cannot have fairy tale illusions of love. They don’t exist; they never did and perhaps never will.
What I do know about love is this-that it is hard. That it is elusive. That it may never come. 
In dreams, I am never myself. My life is not the shambles it is in reality. In my dreams, my life is perfect. What does perfection entail? In my dreams, I am always accomplished.. I am rich.. Not wealthily, ostentatiously, 1% rich, but rich enough to be comfortable. I have a great career, one that I love, one that I am passionate about. Most importantly, above all things, I have a man I adore and who adores me. And then I wake up and the reality of life is crushingly disappointing.
Many have given me advice; to work towards that vision of perfection, to strive towards loving myself more, being more forgiving of myself, to stop beating myself down and to cease to only focus on what I am not and instead see what I am, to learn to love myself-with what that should entail, to desist from putting myself into situations with men who do not want me. It’s all great advice, but how do you do that? Does it involve therapy? How do you go from not loving yourself to loving yourself? What is the secret? How do you love yourself when all you can see are the glaringly big failures in your life?
I know full well what kind of contestant I would be were I on Top Model. I would be one of the weaker contestants, so filled with crippling self doubt that I would shoot myself in the foot and end up one of the ones eliminated early. I would be one of those, who after one bad shoot, completely gives up. I would be one of those contestants who would never win. Seemingly, that is my lot in life, to never be a winner… 

What is this thing called love?

I- Love isn’t enough anymore.

These days, love isn’t enough anymore. That perhaps should be amended with a connection isn’t enough anymore. Beyond having some kind of camaraderie, one is expected to also be dynamite in the sack; the days of accepting and allowing love to grow between two people who get along roaringly are over. Now, two people not only have to be able to communicate, but to also be compatible sexually.

I guess that’s pretty obvious really, for us gay men. You cannot have two tops or two bottoms, despite how well they get along, despite how much desire there is present, form a relationship. It just can’t happen because of the emphasis placed on all matters sexual. The amount of porn imagining that scenario… Well let’s just say it’s a lazy, quick way to set up a threesome. But perhaps due to the abundance of such pornography, it isn’t as uncommon as I think it is?
It is currently a tops market in the dating scene in Melbourne. There aren’t enough tops, or perhaps, enough tops who are looking to commit and an abundance of bottoms who are ready to quit The Game. If you were a top though, why would you give up that freedom? The one which allows you to pick and choose and discard as you please? There is so much choice out there.. Why would any top settle for a bottom who is slightly deviant from his idea of perfection? The supply of bottoms is seemingly endless, so surely the ‘perfect’ bottom partner is out there…
For us bottoms though? It’s a terrible travesty. We do not date each other because then what would we do for sexual gratification? Of course there is the option of turning into a sides couple, but it is my experience that not many, if any bottoms want that. And the tops that are available can freely, very very freely decide to just sleep around. They don’t even have to try very hard anymore, what with the excess of bottoms. 
What is there left to do for the gay men who identify as bottoms in Melbourne? You go online, and the hustle is basically pointless because 9 times out of 10, the guy you are talking to is a bottom and the other remaining time, you are probably talking to a ‘sub par’ top. What’s the point? Where are the tops? Are they all taken? 
Or perhaps the market is only seemingly saturated because only bottoms seem to be emotionally invested in a relationship. Tops, they have better things to do… Why invest in a relationship when you can have all the ass you want? 
II- The choice..
I see couples everywhere, mostly I notice the mismatched ones. Where it is so evident to me that one party has deeply, deeply compromised and settled. There is that sense of superiority sometimes, a sense that I am better than that-I will never compromise. But other times, in the cold harsh light of my own loneliness, that air of superiority begins to feel absolutely hollow…
There are choices, options. One can settle or one can not settle. There is a freedom, that precious freedom to decide which is the more pressing need: perfection or just someone to love. One can choose to continually reject and perpetually seek out perfection. Or one can settle on what is in front, within reach. One can aim high, one can aim low. So many different variations of options…
With each choice, comes a drawback. To choose perfection is to walk towards the risk of remaining single. For perfection is an abstract concept, what does perfection feel like? What is perfect? And even if you find the perfect person, there is no guarantee that perfect person would want you back. What then? 
But to settle? That brings with it the potential for regret. That itch at the back of ones mind: is there someone out there who is perfect? If I’d waited and not settled, would I be with that person? With those kinds of questions, what use really is settling? 
I write this second half of the post as I sit in my solitude pondering the same old familiar question: should I settle? If I did settle, then what? If I remained alone forever, then what? As usual, I do not have any insight. I cannot, for example claim that one choice is above the other. I have done both, and they both are not perfect choices. 
I am told that patience; patience is key. But for how long must I wait? I see my options running out. With each mistake I make, there is one less option. And options are a finite resource. Sooner or later, I will use up my allotted options. 
Some may say that all those mistakes I made, well if it didn’t work out then it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Then it must be that these men were not for me. But then where is the man for me? 
I cannot choose, as always, as usual. The status quo is that I do not know. Which is the more expedient choice? Which is the best? Which is the more prudent one? The future is not given for us to see, and mine feels exceptionally bleak. I feel as though I am walking through a thick fog. There is the promising path and there is the path of despair but I cannot quite discern which path I am headed towards.