So last night I was sitting around listening to music, especially a lot of Doo Wop for some reason. Let me just say, Doo Wop was not created by man. On the eighth day God created Doo Wop. It’s just too friggin beautiful to be an invention of the mortal man. Before jazz took over my life, I was a big fan of the stuff from the 50’s and 60’s. Like the Paul Simon song goes, “The Penguins, the Moonglows, the Orioles and the Five Satins.” I used to dig all of those groups as a kid, and still do. I was listening to the Penguins sing “My Troubles Are Not At End” and just sat there thinking of how incredibly beautiful the song was. Then The Flamingos with “I Only Have Eyes For You”. How could you not love that song? Five guys standing beneath a streetlamp, snapping their fingers and harmonizing like mad. Like jazz, Doo Wop is purely American. No one can say they gave it to us (except God, as mentioned earlier :o) )

Anyway, I also found myself listening to the song “Vincent” by Don McLean. I remember listening to this tune as a kid, but it’s meaning for me differed as a kid compared to now. When I was a kid, this was one of the songs that put me to sleep at night. At night, I would listen to the radio while dozing off. Sinatra, Dinah Washington, Jose Feliciano, Don McLean. Songs like “Vincent” tucked me in and sent me on my way to gentle slumber. But later in life I discovered Vincent Van Gogh and became just as fascinated with the man as I was with his artwork. So, last night I am listening to this song and felt compelled to grab his book “The Letters Of Vincent Van Gogh”. I flipped it open and dig the page I happen to open. Remember my statements on unrequited love last night? Well, the first words I read in the book were

Dear Theo,

There is something in my heart that I must tell you; perhaps you know about it already and it is not new for you. I want to tell you that this summer a deep love has grown in my heart for Kee, but when I told her this, she answered me that to her, past and future remained one, so she could never return my feelings.

Then there was a terrible indecision within me as to what to do. Should I accept her “no, never, never” or considering the questions as not finished and decided, should I keep some hope and not give up?

And therein lies the angst of unrequited love. “But for someone you adore, it’s a pleasure to be sad”. Yes, this is true. But to know that this love could not or would not be returned is pure torture. “Am I wasting my life away loving one who will never feel the same for me? Or should hope remain? Should I hold near to my heart that sliver of hope that this other person will soon come around and realize that I am the one for them? Should I wait for them to realize that no one will ever love them as much as I, and even more importantly, that they could never love anyone more than I?

The problem with unrequited love is the potential for infinite waiting. Waiting for something that may never be. The problem is the pain of not knowing. And the one question that arises for both parties involved is “What is wrong with me?” The possessor of this passion that refuses to wither and die wonders, “What is wrong with me that they can not return this wonderful feeling? Can they not recognize how beautiful this could be? It is me. What must I change about myself to change that reflection in their eyes to one of utter certainty?”

The object of such unwavering affection is forced to wonder, “What is wrong with me that I can not return this love that this person expresses? Why do I not see the potential beauty they see so plainly? Why do my eyes still look elsewhere for the same kind of love this person feels for me?”

Yes, it is a pleasure to be sad. Sometimes. Sometimes, it’s just a bitch.