A rant: fishing

I feel the old ache of wanting a comfort.  Love has been such an enigma of faces.  I tend to define being loved as being needed.  Being needed does not encompass love, but let us say it is a mandatory subcomponent of love.  If one is not needed, then certainly one is not loved.  

One can be wanted.  I have felt wanted to a degree, but then looking back I feel like I was probably more a convenience.  My go to analogy is if I was to screw up, to say ruin our finances, or be unfaithful to some measure of trust on a level to be debated, I have never felt and cannot wrap my mind around a sense of assurance that anyone would have fought to keep me.  This is a troubling contemplation to define my sense that I was worth fighting for.   

I am a man that in his mind refuses to set the hook in the fish.  The action seems manipulative and all together opposing the definition of love itself.  I am a feckless fisherman of sorts, fishing without a hook.  I guess I do not believe in hooks.  Whoever I am to be with should not need a hook to form a partnership.  

I am, I guess, bread stuck to an apparatus absent a barb floating, waiting for an aquatic animal to hang around, to nourish on what I have to offer.  If she is to leave then that is the other’s choice.  I am also a fish swimming searching for a barb-less woman.  

All this motion of non-pursuit, pursuit, I do not want.  I never have.  I want personal disclosure, facts and parties to know themselves well enough to judge if that combination is worth their time.   This thinking the logical part of the brain with chemicals has its absurdities that torment me.  Sometimes I wish the waters of the ocean could drain away and we could sit naked conversing with each other.  Is that not the inevitable end result of the happy?