the silence that is broken by a stream of sincere compliments.
How curious the place that such a stream meets its source.
The things you say when I least expect them. When I’ve sorted it all out and you come along and flip the apple cart. My voice is the most beautiful voice. Warm, bubbly, no, not bubbly.
Effervescent, you clarify. That’s what it is.
And whatever agenda I had resolved over pancake and egg is lost. If I hadn’t been halfway into another story – one I was sharing with friends, a bit of time travel I was taking part in with them – I would have been putty in your hand.
We talk about ethereal and astral planes and formian creatures and bestiaries inaccessible. I say I can’t keep you.
We need to get together. We need to figure it out, you say.
We should talk more about that then, I reply, encouraged by how endlessly earnest he is, and hopeful that sleep doesn’t make all this a memory.
The bad habits. The bad, bad, bad habits. You give one inch to one of them and down the hill you roll with them all.
Now, I have some ice water. It seems to be a medicine and I can think again.
Tomorrow: brunch. And then, we have an order of groceries that does not give a centimeter to the plots of bad habits. Back on track because failing this has been boring and bothersome. A sugary slurp, a salty grind, a belly ache and a delirious desire to pay a ridiculous fee for the opportunity. I feel the reasons out quick as ever as to why a woman who eats out for her meals at every opportunity might feel ill and ungainly. I lose one wagon, but I know where I can find another one to climb upon. The path I chose is the only one that will improve my lot. Out, out, damned spots. Let me have the future I desire. Some slice of it, the parts I have my will to alter.
And I hope to find the words tomorrow. Tell me what we are. Tell me what you guess we are. Tell me that this is not the most painful sort of game. You call yourself single. Outright. For all the world. While an hour later, you say, stay with me. Just stay with me. And I do, because where else would I go, and you hardly mean anything more than stay on the line. Stay attached to this very long strand that clutches around my throat, the one you’ve tied to some bedroom door so that every time you enter I feel a gentle choke.
Because it can’t be real. Me here, you there. And as soon as I am the one who begins to believe it possible, as soon as I swear on stones that there’s some grander scheme at work, you go and say, I am single and things are hard being alone.
So I, not wishing to look a fool, say, with delicate darts to keep the truth hemmed up, pinned in, I, too, am looking for the sort of man who…the kind of man who is…the wistful dreams of my heart have yet to be requited in any mortal form and I am amongst ye, oh, walking and wakeful damned who have found your hearts cleaved in full from that of any others. I share your fate. I have no answers. I have no claims. But no, none of you dare approach me for succor or support, because if you do I shall be forced to drive you out of my presence. For what manner of villainy would allow for me to idle for hours in some communal, if imaginary bed, and reciting any manner of romantic assertions, cooing and giggling and playing the part and then, wordlessly, doing the same with someone else? How profaned would I be to learn that he might afflict such an act upon me?
So I have nothing.
Give me the strength to take my nothing in one lump, one gasp, one shot.
What can be said in thirty minutes while hanging off the edge of the world?
- Forgot my laptop today. Given it’s a 40 minute ride to work, that was a tremendous up-fuck I was luckily able to fix.
- Dreamed just prior to that about failing in work responsibilities – although my dream set it at the clothing shop, safer, I suppose. I just wandered off when they asked me to do something. Not paying attention. A bit frustrating that is my response.
- Reconciling myself to the facts that my choices have consequences. Good and ill.
I want to write this post with some modicum of eloquence.
I need to take the trash out and do the dishes, clean the fridge.
I need to read 15-30 pages of my book.
I need to make my bed up.
Play Civ VI
Play Dragon Age. (Yes. Was distracted, but yes.)
I begin so poorly because today does not come with a ready-made narrative. Today had just strange conversations and strange glimpses of the past and strange impulses and strange behavior and I don’t know how to correct for it here.
So, yeah, the oddity of J and I, the pulling apart and smacking far too hard back together again continues apace. I don’t know how to describe it without saying more than a public blog on the internet allots for. There are communications between two people which aren’t meant to be parsed and reconstituted into a digital form for the masses to consume. Suffice to say, that the doubts have not been erased, but they have been duly pacified, though the new possibilities that loom are…not without their own dangers.
Am I a kind soul that can balm and soothe these torments and concerns or am I a woman loved? I have no clear vision even now. We’re discussing things I don’t know if either of us want. I forget all the time that I haven’t met him. I forget all the time that to plan anything more than a single meeting is insanity. But he suffers where he is. He needs someone around and I think so many of these struggles would be eliminated. Yet. Where are we, and I have no responsibility to this, I am just a random stranger on the internet. Except I keep arguing as a method of encouraging a few inches less of this endless light between us that is not the case. That we’re doing all this for a reason. I am the mouth that says stay, that says I want to help, that means to foster sympathies and affections with its words.
He says he won’t be a parasite when we begin to talk about how I have some flexibility now. And my heart breaks. That’s not what I see or want or believe. It is a time of recovery, but he needs some human support. He needs some compassion after all he has given the world.
What I want is his ability to mind his shop so steadily that I am chosen and not grasped towards. I want to free him from this sense that all is dire and impossible and bound as it has been in his painful past. I want him to have the strength to buoy himself when I am not able to take the call or reply speedily. I want for whatever time is that we’re actually together, fully together, that we’re not spending it crawling up from a shell of torment.
No carts and no horses. Just this strange state again all come over me.
Watching A Very British Romance documentary with the adorable and quite capable presenter Lucy Worsley and this is impacting my mind as you will see below. I learned about Pamela (or Virtue Rewarded), which I had certainly heard of, but not how much it had changed the landscape of literature. I never fully grasped Samuel Richardson as a key player in the same way that Austen was, so it was interesting to see it framed so. Completely enjoyable and I shall be putting the third one on – modern romance – once I finish up my holy obligations here.
Feeling a bit winded and worn in the sort of way that one sleep might not improve. Feeling a bit exhausted in the bones. The day was okay. The weight I lost is not truly lost yet. I am petrified about forgetting shit, but here we are, facing Wednesday, and the fact that things are going to have to be alright regardless of whether or not we know how to make them so.
I am also a bit keen to have my conversation. I need just a bit of a moment to understand this. I can’t…wait forever. Everyone reminds me I can’t wait forever. All of the historical romance documentary tells me so. And if the hold up is simply not being understood, well, that’s something I can effectuate change around (there’s the corporate world beginning to slip into my vocabulary.)
Because I am thinking about the RP’er again. I can’t help it. I’ve glanced back at those final, closing emails. The ones that said the door was open. A door I’ve shut because I thought that I was starting something legitimate and and tangible and sincere. And it is those things – in one sense. On some days. I can’t help but wonder if regardless of what either J. or I want, there’s no feasible way for us to have this happen. The distance too great, the issues too large. The height distance notwithstanding. If he doesn’t want to figure out how to see me, if he doesn’t want to say it, if he doesn’t want this to check that box. If that’s how he sees it, then why am I not available to other people even in limited ways?
I don’t know. I am so willing, but I lean forward and he pulls back. Then I have thoughts like this, thoughts that question whether or not I am just some Mary Haskell-type figure, worrying over and wanting to help him and support him rather than a true fount of flourishing romance. Though, who am I to say what Mary Haskell and Khalil Gibran were really truly all about.
Still. I…this halfway ain’t enough. But is it halfway forever or just halfway and all I have to do or say is that I need more and I’d have more? But I’ve asked and the feeling was quash it, kill it, suffocate it. Maybe that’s not what was intended. That’s what I’m supposed to do – find out what was intended.