I'm not a very nice person. I'm just not. I'm selfish and self-centered, frequently recreationally bitchy, and lazy enough to avoid doing something for someone else if there's any way I possibly can. So if there's one thing that tends to mystify me in others it's altruism.

Most of the time altruism looks idiotic to me. Self-interest is a biological imperative; it's not a choice. You look out for yourself or you die, that's it. I can almost always find a reason why someone is doing something that has to do with their own well-being. So it tends to mystify me when I can't. But sometimes, mystified though I may be, I'm disarmed as well, unsure how to react. Unsure because I don't know if I could do something like that. Don't know if I could be that good, that kind.

I'm lazy as hell. I ask him to do so much, just 'cause I don't feel like doing it. He does it, smiling, hushes me when I apologize for being a lazy bitch, tells me he enjoys it. Then he comes back with that beautiful smile on his face, looking so happy to have done something silly and menial for me. I... god, I don't know what to say. I don't know how to begin to thank someone for doing something I'm not sure it's in my nature to be able to emulate. How can I understand this kindness, this simple goodness?

I know I'm not a nice person. I'm so far from being a good person that I can't even begin to comprehend good people. But that doesn't mean they don't fill me with pure awe. I gibber, I stammer, I gape. I want to ask why, but I know there's no answer. I can't even speculate on how I might repay such compassion, because I know I can't. All I can do--all I want to do when I encounter someone like this--is shelter them, take care of them, protect them, because on some level I believe that such true decency is an endangered thing, and the only way I can honor it is by preserving it from selfish people who would take advantage of it, preserving it from people like me.

I love you in my own way... though I wish I was a good enough person to repay you in kind for your infinite patience, your infinite kindness and tenderness, your unfailing smile. Maybe you'll teach me that, my angel. I think you've already made me a much better person than I was.

Labels: Brendon, Introspection, Love

I've been thinking a lot about money these days, of necessity... which is stressful, of course. I'm not real materialistic; I don't care about money in general, and I'll give it away if I have it, no questions asked. So I don't like being forced to worry about it; it bothers me, bores me, stresses me. So naturally, as I'm thinking about what we can afford, I'm thinking about worth, value, trade...this is life. Trading value for value. Having him here is happiness greater than I ever thought myself lucky enough for. But love isn't all of it. Love isn't the only reason I always want him within arm's reach, why I'll go with him if I can, why I'll avoid leaving him by any means.

What makes a friend? People keep asking me, of late, what they do for me. People I love want to know what it is they do that makes me love them. But they also admit that it's a question they could never answer themselves. I could only ever answer it with platitudes, unfortunately... I don't know if there is a true answer that can be expressed in words. My dear Katrina says that platitudes are permissable... I've always tried to avoid them, felt they were emptier than saying nothing. But what I'm learning is that the weight of words doesn't depend on how often they've been said before, but rather upon the pure truth of their intention. I can say "I love you" as many times as I have breaths, and so I have, and so long as I mean it, it still means as much. Not something I've ever really thought about before, though it may seem self-evident now.

I stood on the top floor of the Children's Museum last night, looking out at the buildings and the lights, the whole city empty and silent. I stood on a rock above the water and looked at the sky. I stood in front of candles and a saint whose face ran in the glare of the lights and looked like an ocean. But I've done it before--what's different now? That I only have to point, and he sees. Not explain, not reconstruct, not demonstrate. I only have to point. I point... and he sees what I see. And on the edge of both of our sights... the silhouette of the other. No sight is perfect without it anymore.

So I keep him close, and always will. I see so much more with four eyes.

Labels: Brendon, Love