The Chase (Revisited)
It would be fair to say I’m always in pursuit of the unattainable.
Always chasing after that which is out of reach, I’ve made a habit of setting myself up for a series of unfortunate, and often epic, failures. But I’ve always enjoyed the chase. In some ways, I’m a bigger fan of the process then I am of the end result.
Even my wins, rare as they may be, are not as sweet a high then the ones I have experienced in the months leading up to the conquest. The adrenaline of the hunt, the tense longing of desire — these are the anticipated feelings that get me up in the morning like the smell of cooking bacon.
The desire for change always outweighs the actual change itself.
She is the girl whom all other women in my life are judged by. Time is set in intervals by the briefest of encounters I share with her. When she reaches out to me, she stops the forward motion of my life — putting everything else, all other priorities, on pause. It would be fair to say I’ve spent my life in pursuit of her.
I’ve chased after the idea of the girl since before I knew her. Even before she was in my life, I felt her presence foreshadowed by others. My patience tempered by previous desires — honed for the coming marathon of longing I would soon experience.
I’ve driven all night for an hour of her time. I’ve put an end to relationships with other girls just to hear the sound of her voice. Like a sailor under the spell of a siren, I’ve bashed my ship against the rocks of mad love time and time again — and I’d do it once more if she just but asked.
In my dreams I’ve concocted grand schemes that would surely win her heart. From kidnapping marching bands and teaching them the love songs of the ‘80s to hiring private eyes to take incriminating photos of her lovers, my schemes have ranged from romantic to creepy — oftentimes meeting in the middle to share a sleeping bag of awkwardness. She brings out the worst in me.
I’ve tried to escape the gravitational pull she has on me. I’ve written her out of my life, sworn her off like a bad habit, but she always comes back. All it takes is the sound of her voice, the smell of her skin, the smallest smile and I’m off the wagon. I can never escape the chase. For the rest of my life I’ll be looking for the girl.
In moments of clarity I know that she is completely wrong for me — as wrong as I am for her. I am but a tourist in her life and I do not want to live there. I would be miserable in the world she thrives in. I enjoy visiting but, in the end, I just want to take her as a souvenir and leave. Loving her would mean a change in my life and all I want is a snow globe that I can put on my shelf.
Even with this knowledge, I can’t resist the chase. Maybe it’s the lingering ghost of failure that drives me to finish what I started. Maybe it’s the shadow of destiny I feel pulling at my shoestrings — pushing me forward on the inevitable path that has been laid before me. Maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.
There are times I’ve come close to reaching the end of the chase.
I’ve been in grasp of it all and I’ve let it go. Some self-destructive part has always prevented me from achieving that which I so desire. It has only been me that has stood in my way. Maybe it can be attributed to the part of me that knows, when all is said and done, what I’m really chasing after is the chase itself.
