To SMS or not to SMS

Hello, I love you, won’t you tell me your name. Hello, I love you, let me jump in your game… Hello… What a great sensation of lightness and floating emotions Jim Morrison was conveying! When I think of all the chains that I have broken in the past ten years and the easiness I feel about who I am now, I pity the complexity of my relations.
One day, I would like to just wake up and think of HIM in the simplest terms ever; without going into intricate analysis of his behavior in the previous nights, without attempting to study carefully in my head the way he opened his mouth and directed his look seconds before he uttered a certain word. I just want to be naked in front of HIM with all the fragility of my feelings for HIM. I would like to send him a message, a short condensed message that will escape “the center for interpreting words” in his brain.
I pity all the complex and intense moments I spend during the long journey of producing a message.
First, surfaces the embedded concept of sending an SMS. Words start floating. Some are discarded on the spot. Others get barred by mental obstacles. Others are naturally selected. Then, every single word of these blessed ones becomes subject to various chemical and physical tests. In these meticulous scientific experiments, every observation and every result are significant. Elasticity, density, impact, viscosity, binding capacities, all these are crucial elements to consider before coming up with the final product.
And once I am tired of all the possible combinations and discover the limits of my cerebral exercise, I surrender to the realization that there is no best outcome, that all my attempts will anyhow be mediocre. I just send one version, any version. I am so much suffocating from getting myself into such risky and murky territory that I want salvation at any price.
Then comes a phase of slow inertness marked with moments of aimless agitation as the words venture into the virtual space of cables and waves to reach that of brain cells. The guilt of the crime I have committed weighs heavily on me. All the lessons I have learned from my own long experiences, sharp advice from friends, endless writings of experts on love, seduction and relationships form one massive front to rebuke me for my pitiful behavior.
“Don’t send him honey words. Men like challenge, adventure. Take him to do a risky activity, he’ll feel an emotional need.”
“What? You sent him an SMS saying you had a good evening with him? Are you out of your mind!”
“Don’t make him feel you want him. Just be tough and he’ll come crawling.”
When the answer flashes on the screen of my mobile (or doesn’t), comes the bitterness of the disappointment. Why was I so carelessly over emotional? Emotions are meant to be buried or strangled or disguised or colored or remodeled or… or…
I am fed up. Will the illusion I cling to of having at least preserved my true human sincerity, of having risen above the pathetic nonchalance of men, of having triumphed to my true self really matter?
Disillusionment is a double-edged sword. You might think it leaves one relieved to be disillusioned with the race of men, but in reality, in every disillusionment, there is a tiny trap made of hope.
The next ride will be different, so I convince myself every time. What a blasphemy!
Save yourself while you can! © El Matador