Predictable as ice melting. Today is day 3, and so it's on to the feelings of loss, the sense that I'm missing out, the acknowledgment that I'm doing it to myself. The cracking of the exterior, the slow breakdown that will ultimately result in admitting my folly, admitting my mistakes and misperception, admitting to anything just to get back the thing I'm desperate not to lose.

It always starts with some sort of righteous anger - righteous, at least, from the perspective of my wounded little corner. I retreat, sure I've been living in a fairy tale, sure that I've been duped, satisfied with a pretense of love that was never actualized. "I am tired of being the first, the initiator, the one always asking and inviting and believing," I say. I want to be on the receiving end of some unsolicited message of approval, of love. Something that says, "You are a difference-maker in my world. I value you in a special way, different from how I value other things."

This something doesn't have to be words. It doesn't have to be a symbol, gift, or gesture. There are no specifications. It just has to be. That's what I think when I submit my proposal. But really, there are rules. I have to perceive it to be what I want. And my perceptions are impenetrable, even to myself.

Is it true what they say, that you can't possibly receive love until you know how to love yourself? If so, it's a lost cause.

At any rate, it's day three, and the exterior is cracking. Breakdown. Caving in. I was wrong, you are right. Please don't leave. The weakness I can't stand to witness in myself.

The temptation to be drastic - to up and leave, or to go screw anonymously - is tempered by the dread of permanently damaging something I believe I can't live without. Predictable. Day 1, righteous anger. Day 2, stubborn holdout. Day 3, cracking, lonely. Day 4, or 5, or Day Inevitable: breakdown. It doesn't matter how long. It won't last. Like ice in the sun.