Couches have never been the most comfortable of surfaces to rest on. I can hardly sleep. Unfortunately, this will be my life for a little while longer.

I arrived in Utah last week, after a last minute, 20-hour flight from Sydney Australia. I was supposed to stay longer, but I needed a place away to recover from giving my heart to a man who did not know how to properly hold one.

I don’t speak much of my love life on this blog; some things I’d rather not air to the internet world. However, I’m sure I didn’t write cryptically enough to completely disguise my break-up of sorts. So, I might as well stop speaking code and be real.

In regard to relationships, I have not had many. If I don’t have to travel to the other side of the world, or make secret payphone calls at midnight, or if his love letters don’t sound like a modern rendition of Song of Solomon then I most likely won’t even give it a go.

However, once they have me tricked into progressing to the stages of infatuation, I am done for. I sign away my time, my affection, and the rights to all my poetry to an invisible contract with their initials at the top.

In the end (and they always have ended), I learn a fair share about how I love, how I hurt, and how I heal. Mainly, I learn I give far too much depth to the thought of a man euphorically entering the role of my Casanova, only for me to be eminently disappointed at his lackluster approach to romance and courtship.

In retrospect, I have lost months of my life dedicating my thoughts to men who “treat [my affection] as if it were a flower to put in [their] coat, a bit of decoration to charm [their] vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day” as Oscar Wilde so perfectly put it.

Only recently have I concluded I no longer wish to subscribe to the notion completion is found in a lover’s arms. I most certainly don’t want to continue my unreasonable expectation for a man to entertain me either.

I want to be alone for a while. I need some time to clear my mind from my intoxicatingly lovely, high-maintenance ideals on romance.

It’s not out of bitterness or some momentary, post-breakup, empowerment spurt that I’ve made this decision. Rather, I feel peace when I consider living without yet another spontaneous rebound to fill my boredom or ration for affection.

I blush at the thought of graduating college on my own this year, of finding/building a home, and proving to myself that I am capable of doing this on my own. I need to know that I am whole, and sometimes in the whirlwind I call romance I tend to forget that.

Also, I wouldn’t mind another year of books and late-night snacks cluttering the other half of my bed (that is when I quit couch surfing and actually get a bed.)

Cheers to finding a bed before finding a man.signature2


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