Masochism

Masochisim

1. The enjoyment of an activity that appears to be painful or tedious.

Internal reflection. Time alone with your thoughts. It's a dangerous activity that I subconsciously tend to shy away from. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy with my own company. I can while away the hours stretched out luxuriously on the sofa, absently-mindedly cupping my genitals with the TV on as well as the next man. I'll kick back with a novel and escape into the inner reaches of my own imagination, contentedly pretending that the real world doesn't exist. But to sit and analyse my own thoughts? To study my own deviances and the reasoning behind them? Now that is a rare occurance.

It's complex to pinpoint exactly why. Or perhaps it's threateningly simple. After all, as I stare at the monitor, fingers whirring away of their own accord, I know the reason for donning my mental blinkers. I'm scared of the realisations that I may just uncover.

But that's the point of this whole exercise, right? Let it all out. Search within. Expose your naked soul. Do any of us really want to expose our naked soul? Shit, I'm a little unconvinced that discovering the reasons behind my issues is going to help me overcome them. Agorophobics must have a pretty damn good idea that the heavens won't fall upon their delicate heads the moment they step out of the house. They still stay the fuck inside.

Focus. I've meandered enough already and it's time to delve into this evenings subject:

'Why do I always want what I can't have?'

It's a cliche. Fuck it, in so many ways we're all walking cliches. Still, it's gradually dawning on me that it's the truth. And, as always, the area of my life where this grubby little stereotype is so common? Women. Always fucking women.

In recent times, friends have flung the accusation at me with increasing regularity. "You only want her because you can't have her" they throw. And each time the same response. "Not true." I rebuke. "I wanted her before I knew I couldn't have her."

And that's me being honest. At least, as far as I can tell that's me being honest. The problem with being an exquisite liar is the difficulty in deciphering when you're bullshitting yourself. For the moment at least, let's assume that my conscience isn't nervously scratching the back of its head when it swears to me that I had a yearning need to be with these women before I knew that I couldn't. This assumption still leaves a problem. I've recently had a realisation vaguely unsettling to discover, the previously undiscovered lump on my metaphorical testicles, if you will. All of the girls that I've ached for, for as far back as I can remember, have had something in common.

Not that they've been beautiful. The poetic sort will insist that all women have an intrinsic beauty individual only to them. I call that a flagrant lie, foolish flattery at best. This isn't the point. They have all been beautiful, all been intelligent and neither of these charming traits form the common denominator. The link is as simple as its reason is complex. They have all been a challenge.

Every man likes a challenge, I hear you retort. And yes, as I understand it that's difficult to argue against. Granted, all men like an easy girl. Every man wants to bed a girl on the first date and the same men are all a little disappointed in the girl if she obliges. That aside, I agree, every man likes a challenge. The problem becomes acute when the task of obtaining the girl is so great that it's destined to fail.

I've met plenty of nice girls. Plenty of girls who like me and are seemingly happy to make this passively clear. There's nothing wrong with these women. To an unbiased eye, stand them alongside the challenges and the beholder will struggle to tell them apart. Seemingly, this would be all too easy. It's the unobtainable that yields the deepest desire within my heart. The path my inner compass guides me down is the trail edged with barbed wire leading to the bottomless pit of despair, complete with melancholy padding.

We're coming to the part where I conclude with an epiphany. That leaves me with a problem. The recent realisation hasn't left me at the centre of a beam of light. I stand enlighted yet not emboldened with the discovery. The weight has neither left my shoulders nor become easier to carry for its recognition. How do we change what is an intrinsic part of our own nature? Perhaps I'll revisit this post in the coming days. It's getting late and the treacle of my thoughts is ever thickening. For now, I'm only wondering one thing.

Maybe it'd be easier if I was just scared to leave the fucking house?