The one about the wobble

So, you strange mammal, are already back for another one of my rantings.

Can’t say I’m surprised.

Let’s do it.

After my piece about obsession and my preachy ending, I got some comments from friends who read it. Some were like, “That’s beautiful, Sisyphus,” but those comments are good, so naturally we ignore them.

The important one was:

“You’re a hypocrite and a coward, and I will name you so in every court in Europe. Your name will be known by everyone, followed by the moniker The Meek. You’re not surrendering out of trust or love. You’re surrendering because your seventh ancestor was a chicken. There. I said it.”

I may have paraphrased a little bit. Obviously, some creative license was taken, but that’s the spirit of the thing.

This friend called that reaction “The Wobble.”

Why?

Fuck me sideways if I know.

Apparently it has something to do with my vow at the end being a tightrope, and the rope wobbling the moment things start getting complicated. Especially because this particular descendant of the T. rex (as all chickens are, allegedly) has been asked to stay and has decided to leave.

But I ask everyone—including myself—isn’t that decision also mine to make?

Is this a one-person jail against the whole world?

Fuck no.

Let’s go deeper.

The accusation is dumb because I am not afraid of love, nor of what love implies. If it happened again, I would probably groan, have a small histrionic panic attack, and definitely complain a lot. But I would also feel the same stupid happiness and the same tenderness that everyone else feels.

I am not afraid to commit. I have no allergy to being called a partner, a boyfriend, or—God forbid—a husband.

I am not afraid of any of the infrastructure that comes with the job, and I actually think I’m pretty good at it.

So no, dear friend.

I’m not a coward.

And we can have a Nerf battle any day to prove it.

But there is definitely a limit built into me.

And what is privacy about these days, anyway?

The real question is not, “Can he love?”

The real question is: why, when faced with a “Don’t leave,” has he chosen to do so, even while feeling sad about it?

Why do I decide that living by myself is enough, and that if a Player Two joins the game, they have to do so in a way that fits with me without suffocating either of us?

Is it selfishness?

Is the man who claims to be opening his hand to the universe and returning its treasures actually just turning toward the wall instead?

Is he simply calling selfishness by a prettier name?

Could it be both?

The thing about selfishness is that this comes from a man who just wished selfishness and fear upon someone on her birthday—someone I deeply care about—because a life without either tends to be lived by other people.

And that sucks.

Live for yourself.

Selfishness is the way, because only by looking at your life through that lens can you build one in which another person fits without either of you being slowly consumed.

And that does make me a chicken.

The idea of slowly dying inside a bad relationship is one of my greatest fears.

With good reason.

We should all look around and think:

“One of the things I want to avoid at any cost is becoming involved in a relationship of any kind that includes control, expectations that go beyond simply being together and cooperating in life, or any form of violence.”

Because that is one of the worst things life has to offer.

So, faced with the idea of The Wobble, I think the verdict is that I am indeed a coward.

But also, I have become wise through suffering.

And I am honest.

Spending a few months with someone who is a bad fit is easy. I have done it successfully. Happily, even. And more important: without it becoming a toxic wasteland.

But if someone starts feeling insecure, if someone is never satisfied, if someone ends up spending too much time trying to shape the other person, if jealousy stops being something that happens and becomes something that simply is, then the best thing that can be done is to end it before the drama begins.

Before someone’s soul starts collecting scars.

The thing about life, love, and the fucking Wobble is that, in the end, no one is a perfect fit for anyone else.

Eventually, you have to commit yourself. You have to step off the edge of the mountain and surrender your hopes to the wind.

Doing that requires something beyond bravery.

It requires a choice.

Choice is the paddle that allows us to move through time. But it has a catch: you can only use it one second at a time, and you can choose exactly once for each second.

Everything else is philosophy. Everything else is the post-mortem of proto-relationships that might have been, but that you saw becoming toxic, or in which you felt the other person was at risk, and so you backed away.

The message from my friend—who, for whatever obscure reason, I think actually wants me to be happy—is really a question:

“If it ever happened again, would you take the jump, or would you keep only the memory of it?”

Obviously, we do not have an answer to that.

If I ever find it, I will post it here.

Privacy be damned.

In the end, Dumas said it first, and said it better.

Love—the best kind—simply happens.

It cannot be bought, created from nothing, summoned through alchemy, or forced into existence.

Wait and hope.

Fac et spera.

What I can say, without feeling like either a coward or a liar, is that letting go is also part of love, and that obsession is never good company for it.

So maybe the idea my friend found so repulsive can actually be recognized as functional: you have no guaranteed time on this planet, so live day by day, love day by day.

However long it lasted, it was worth it. But no amount of crying, begging, or sadness will add a legitimate second to a dead love.

I think that is as clear as I can make it.

And as for the question—why did I leave when asked to stay?

That’s easy: it’s what I thought was right, either for me, for them, or for both of us.

Now, it’s Friday, and you know what that means:

We will go out and pay consenting adults to beat our feet with candy canes or something. I don’t know what young people are into these days.

Peace.