‘Overthinking’ is a misnomer; it’s usually quite devoid of rational thought.

In extremely rare cases, a decent human being meets with another decent human being, builds meaningful relationships with each other, and far into the future create a life together full of sunshine, roses, butterflies, and sweet mangoes. This is, as mentioned, extremely rare. Rarer than, say, a convincing replica of a Da Vinci masterpiece. Or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

(Bitter people will say it’s impossible; it’s really not.)

Often, however, human interaction ends in rather questionable decisions that lead to odd bonds between the most unlikely people. For others, it’s a lucky thing, good news, something they learn to live with after a while; for the rest of us lowly peasants of this forsaken race it’s undoubtedly the most frightening thing to ever have transpired. The vulnerability that goes with coupling (and decoupling, conscious or otherwise, thanks for the term Pepper Potts) makes us feel like holing ourselves up in blanket forts and spending the rest of our days (forlorn, desolate, useless) duking it out with stray insects that manage to enter our Kingdom by the Desk Lamp.

 This goes without saying that I’ve managed to feel that way, because I never really got the chance, but it’s something that comes as a pathological instinct to that other kind of people (to which I belong, funnily enough). There is a natural tendency to shirk from anything that ventures too close to that territory. I’ve seen that scenario play out countless of times around me and it didn’t always go well—at least insofar as that ever went well—and it’s nasty business, truly dirty. It leaves a trail of broken hearts and shattered dreams and empty chairs at empty tables, and full theatre houses on a special screening of One More Chance. It’s heart-wrenching, the way watching a baby fall off a crib while trying to climb out is heart-wrenching: you feel sad for them but still find the strength to marvel at their wondrous stupidity and ignorance of the fact that their situation was of their own doing anyway.

(Eventually you just think of reasons for the baby being in the crib in the first place – really, it could have been a bed or a sofa, why did it have to be a tall crib – until you come to the realisation that oh, kids are supposed to be in cribs anyway, would’ve been dumber to expect them to be safer in beds and sofas.)

(Isn’t sofa plural-sounding?)

The exception to that, at least for the unfortunate souls falling into the non-rare-cases category, is when these people get into that without prior knowledge of what that entails. These people are either lucky or unlucky, depending on their outlook on life. Positive ones turn positively abysmal with time. Negative ones just wither in a corner. The apathetic ones watch calmly as their world starts to crumble and fall apart, and although they look uncaring I’d wager they were more than screaming bloody murder in their brains for the way things take its turn for the worse.

Generally, however, and completely disregarding their feelings for such matters about feelings, they fall.

Into a ditch.

In the middle of nowhere, with no connections and a dying phone battery.

(Just battery. No phone.)

Oddly enough, these exceptions are even rarer than the extremely rare ones (as rare as a replica of, say, Da Vinci or Michelangelo’s butt print), but the way that plays out for them is not as lacklustre. To them, that brings changes to a lot of things that seem, at first, shockingly inadvisable and previously non-existent, in fact. That brings forth a nasty train ride seemingly headed straight to hell, for which they steel their guts and resolve, only to later find that it wasn’t – quite – headed anywhere at all, and that it just goes round and round and round until the train runs out of steam and that will have to find a new ride somewhere, never mind how utterly pointless that gets.

And it sounds terrible, it really does, it sounds like something that would send you running off to the blanket fort, only this time you’ll be asking the insects to stay with you and hear you out as you tell them stories of the eyes and the smile and the way the arms wrap around you to keep you warm. That ruins you bit by bit, wears you out until you don’t have much of a choice, and then—and this is probably the most terrifying part—it gently runs its hands through your hair, and sings you lullabies that fill you with small doses of hope and something that looks like peace, and builds you up again. You’re not the same, but not quite new either. You’re still you, only a little bit odder. Perhaps a little bit more honest.

And then the ditch opens up and becomes a meadow. You’re in the middle of things, everything becomes a connection, and your phone battery is still dead.

(But you never had a phone to begin with, so who cares?)

The point of this rant was lost to me five paragraphs ago. I don’t have a decent way of ending my sentiments about love and its many peculiarities. I doubt there’s any way to end any sentiments about love, let alone a decent one. I doubt a lot of things about love. What I do know is this: it’s a pain in the ass when your home becomes a person instead of a place. Homesickness is more sickening when Home walks and talks and occasionally sends you messages and calls you to say Home misses you.

Homesickness is supposed to be a one-way street. Home is not supposed to miss you back.

Fiesta. Food.




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