Letter to My Valentine, Redux
Ah, Valentine’s Day. This is, by far, one of the easiest holidays to hate (second only to Columbus Day, but that’s another blog entirely). However, the hatred is purely situational. I’m nearly 27 and have never had been on a date let alone had a girlfriend. I have never really celebrated Valentine’s Day because there is nothing to celebrate when you are ‘Forever Alone’. Nothing about this day is special to me. So, why shouldn’t I hate it? All it is is a reminder that I am alone, which is a fact I have trouble escaping most days, only to have it forced upon me on a random day in February.
That doesn’t mean I do hate it though. The only reason I dislike it is that I have no reason to like it. This is a day for love and lovers, and I have neither. If I had somebody, I would probably feel differently about this day. Maybe. I’m the type that will show his love at all times, so I do not need a day for people to tell me I have to show it. But there is a certain romanticism that comes with the day because of tradition. It is a day when you can go over the top in your displays of affection and it is considered normal.
In the end, I’m just waiting for a time when I can celebrate this day, but I will not celebrate the day for the sake of celebrating it. If I am going to celebrate it, it will be with someone I care about, not someone I found because society tells me I need to be with someone for a random day.
I’ve written about it before, a long time ago. It is one of my favorite poems that I have written. I was just 21 at the time and bitter. And that was back when I still really thought I’d meet someone soon. Never have I been so wrong. 6 years later and I’m just as far from love as I was that day, having gained naught but more heartache and a bit of clarity.
“Letter to My Valentine”
Fuck this day,
Today of all days.
What is it to a man who’s never loved?
Just another day, another one alone.
The day for love,
Is not a day for friend.
No memories of this day held dear,
Naught from any in a score of years.
I can offer no heart-felt platitude,
For there’s none my heart hath felt.
All I have is empty words,
Good only for deaf ears.
An addendum from an older writer without his fire:
6 years on and still alone.
6 years gone and never closer.
I’d trade all that time,
For just a day with someone that cared.
I’d trade it all,
For an hour in love.
If loneliness were currency,
I’d be richest of all.
But even if it were,
There are none that would trade it.
So I write my pain and bide my time,
Waiting for the one that will relieve me of my riches.
6 years on and it is still relevant. When I wrote this, I never thought I’d be closing in on 30 and still alone. The kid that wrote that had no idea what wasn’t in store for him. He hurt, but he still hoped. He had thoughts like ‘If I see 50 alone, I’ll just eat a bullet’ without realizing that it was entirely possible. That kid never thought he’d have sex and be more alone afterwards than he has ever been before.
I envy that kid some days. He didn’t know how much the world could suck. He wasn’t aware that the answers he sought would bring more hardship and questions than anything else. He thought things would turn out, because that’s just how the world works. Most importantly, he wasn’t jaded.
And now (after I had written the above two paragraphs), I have written a second part to the poem. It is far less bitter than the original, but it seems somehow more sad. The original raged at the idea of the holiday because he was hurt, but you don’t get that angry unless it means something. The new verse accepts that loneliness is inevitable and has resigned to the fact. The original screamed ‘FUCK YOU! Love me too!’. The new one whimpers ‘Don’t let me die alone’.