The Pointless Love
As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that happens to come to mind. The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.
The smoke from her cigarette dances in the otherwise so clear air. I only watch her go for a brief moment; I can’t bear the sight—and the cold that gradually embraces me—any longer. I open the heavy glass door and step once more into the building bursting with other people’s dreams, which over the past months has turned into our refuge from the usually loud, chaotic world outside, seemingly abandoned by all good spirits.
I deliberately want to miss the moment when she disappears completely behind the walls. Maybe because deep down I really am a coward, and this way it takes longer to sink in that without her, here in these light-flooded halls, it’s quite lonely.
There is no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. Perhaps because there are simply too many differences between myself and the one on the other side. Because the girl of my affection already has someone who occupies the position I’d like to hold myself. Or because the girl I keep thinking about, at the most impossible times—maybe even constantly—simply doesn’t share the same emotions I so vulnerably hold out to her. And if things go really badly, then all of these points apply at once and hit me all the harder.
One almost insurmountable truth seems certain: this love makes no sense, has no future, and therefore no value. And there’s nothing I can do to change that, no matter how much I turn it over in my mind or wish it were otherwise.
With all my might, I try to find objective arguments for why it would be far more logical if I didn’t feel any affection for the shamelessly grinning person opposite me. But no matter how meticulously I search for them, they simply don’t exist—anywhere.
The lists, tables, and diagrams of negative reasons remain empty again today—as always. Because there’s absolutely nothing that argues against wanting to immerse myself in this body that seems almost ready to burst with different talents.
How could one possibly resist the sober, disarming, and sharp-witted charm of this girl? She’s pretty, she’s smart, she’s cheeky. She always has a stupid quip at the ready, either glows with energy or sinks apathetically into her thoughts, and every time I talk to her she opens up like a human incarnation of a lucky bag full of interesting stories.
Her manner flows seamlessly from brazen brat to motivating muse, without entirely dispensing with rules, guidelines, and socially relevant conventions. At heart, she’s one of the good ones—no matter how much she sometimes tries to conceal that with her abrasive ways and loose tongue.
I collect every new detail of her life like puzzle pieces scattered all over the globe, which, piece by piece, assemble into a lovingly decorated and partially scarred treasure map I can use to orient myself as I discover still more adventures, memories, and inspirations.
Then I sit there, listen, marvel, and travel back with her once more to those fateful moments that made her the—quite literally—wonderful personality she is today.
And no matter how great, meaningful, or varied I may consider my own existence, it’s nothing compared to the plays unfolding before my mind’s eye. I watch, transfixed, and can only gape in astonishment.
This pointless love is not a shock, not a jolt, not an earthquake. It gnaws at me, always a little—sometimes more, sometimes less. Usually in situations when I least expect it, or when I catch sight again of a certain smile shaped by the experiences of a young but exciting life. For a brief moment I am happy, only to remember shortly afterward that there was a reason my heart would soon feel a little heavier again.
Yet contrary to appearances, this pointless love is not an ominous feeling—quite the opposite. Far more bleak would be to deny myself this emotion from the outset. For the fact that I can feel this pointless love anywhere at all in my stunted, empathy-stripped soul is proof that I haven’t completely closed myself off from the world, that I’m not yet dead inside, that there’s still hope I won’t someday drown irretrievably in my minimalist melancholy.
As she sets off for home, I call after her with the first stupid remark that comes to mind. There are no lies hidden in my words, no mockery, and no false expectations. I am fully aware of the position from which I’m almost shouting after her, and that her small world is already fully occupied by figures I can neither replace nor wish to.
The slender girl dressed in black, wearing white sneakers marked by life, turns around one more time, grins, calls back, and raises her hand. I wave too, and then she steadily becomes a little smaller—smaller still than she already is.
The only hope rests on a future in which I may continue to follow that pretty face and listen to its stories. After all, our time together is limited. But the psychologically perhaps not entirely sound fact that other people bore me or even get on my nerves after the shortest time, while this girl does not, is sometimes so new, so rare, so unusual that I simply can’t help staying close to her and waiting with curiosity to see what might still come.
Of course, I have to be careful not to fall into the same traps so many others have fallen into before me. Because unrequited affection can tip over in the blink of an eye, leaving me not only with the sad certainty of an unfulfilled romance but also standing amid the ruins of a friendship turned to dust and ash. And I should obviously avoid that at all costs; otherwise this depressing journey will end not only empty-handed, but with a wounded soul as well.
There’s no worse feeling than being in love with a girl I shouldn’t be in love with—for various reasons. And yet, secretly, I’m a little glad about it. Because it also says a great deal about me and the path I have taken so far.
After all, this emotion, classified as negative from the very beginning, can—with a different perspective—transform in no time into a veritable treasure trove of consciousness-expanding ideas. I just have to draw the right conclusions from it and must not act according to outdated patterns of thought.
This pointless love is a bittersweet gift from which I can draw insights, gather inspiration, and gain a lesson or two about myself and others. It gives me the opportunity to enrich my own life with the experiences of the girl, which she shares so trustingly.
I should by no means close myself off to this chance—on the contrary, I should face it as open-heartedly as possible. Even if, or perhaps precisely because, I will probably never reach the actual goal: becoming a part of the world of the one to whom this pointless love is directed.
But hope—no matter how small, feeble, or unrealistic it may be—is known to die last. And sometimes that’s all I need to keep going in this usually so loud, chaotic world abandoned by all good spirits that waits for me out there, beyond these light-flooded halls.