Irrelevant character of disappointment

Hi there, I'm Simon and this is going to be the very first post on my new way of expression, which happened to be the blogging.
Normally I would write a poem or a short story, but this time I feel extremaly lonely, so I'll just let you to taste my mood. Just don't lick it too harsh and don't dance on my bleeding face, please.
Normally I would say my life knows ordinary ups and downs, but Glen's Hansard's voice yawning from my speakers convinces me to believe I'm stuck between the trash. I can't move, so I'm screaming but no one seems to notice or care. I'm just an observer watching people live. Every single emotion tastes like it was used by someone just five minutes before it was delivered to me. Am I here truly? I can't stop thinking about what would happen if I stopped breathing suddenly? Would I miss the love, the friendship, the compassion and all the other feelings in their abstract condition? Would I miss anything? I hope so, because I have spent my entire life trying to experience a real passion of unknown kind. I'm imagining myself as a shadow without formed shape but filled with desire to be seen. I'm moving behind pillars of the theater, where predictable play is being played. And bad actors get all the roses..

OK, that was an introduction to my current state of mind. Oblivion of our very own selves is fucking painful, but you know this already, right?
Today I took my friends to celebrate St. Patrick's Day in a pub. I had this serious crash on one girl's brain. She was... exceptional. And I introduced my friend to her. You know the rest of the story. Guess who was left as the broken hearted sucker hoover fixer guy?
With all my trust issues and puzzled mind processing I don't care about random people who happen to cross my  patch, nor do I care about their feelings toward my person. However I really cared about this single extraordinary girl.
Have you ever grabbed a pillow and screamed out your lungs? That's what I'm doing inside my skull right now. There's no pillow, but sound of synapses breaking apart and only Marcel Proust who's trying to prove  that my suffering can bring the experience of equal value to unfulfilled love. And I really want to believe him, because it's the only thing I can do at the moment. Heart like tempest is beyond my control. Mind can reason but cannot win, so the balance of reality and its facts stay intact. The only thing that shifts is the phantom taking down the shatters of my self-confidence. But, well, this is the natural consequence of trying and failing, isn't it?
I'm not mad, but disappointed that time of trial passed and I have to move on. I do not regret any single moment nor feeling - they will be mine eternally (I hope!). I do not feel betrayed by anyone - I also let my desires to rule over my actions. Like I said, it's all about the loss of a chance to grasp on an abstract idea. I'm not alone and I doubt I will ever be. I'm not unhapppy, people won't let me. I'm a just a curious man who's asking himself how would the brights and shades of forever-lost alternative looked like if things went differently.

I think I fell in love with her. I'm also little bit drunk right now.

Good night