Crush always likes to slam into me like a 30 foot tsunami. I just don’t know what hit me and I don’t see him coming (no pun intended). His desperation for a home is a result of my desperation for autonomy. I say he is “desperate” because his fancy takes such a wide variation of forms, so wide that I couldn’t possibly choose just one. I love them all (all meaning foreign ones, domestics are just pass times). He makes me love the way they speak, the words they say, the tone they use, the stuff I would normally shun, the actions they so easily express without asking…I love it all. I want to take it home with me. Nurture it and live off it to the point where I am completely dependent on it.
Sadly crush doesn’t stay in one place for long. His constant shifts sadden me. But in my deepest, darkest despair over what I can’t have there is always a little light checking in. He feeds me attention when I least expect it. He actually gives me hope…. but I think it is just crush in friend’s clothing…
My words are ink blots, designed to play upon the very essence of what my readers want to hear. Sadly, I have neither granted wisdom beyond what they already knew, nor I have provided them with insight beyond what pieces they had already put together. Whatever it is that they seek they will not find here. But what of me you ask? What do I see in it all? in every word I see his bright blue eyes peering down at me in first sights spark, I feel his arms toss me into the sky only to catch me in his bed of roses, I hear his foreign voice resonate through my mind in a harsh language spoken so sweet, I see that smile that was only for me that night he took me to watch the Emerald City’s lights, and I feel my heart start pounding again like it did when he put his palm to my chest and astonishingly said, “you have a pulse.” In the divine, star-crossed madness of it all, I have to catch my breath and smile because I can still feel him pulsing through my veins.
I accomplished all of it. That means that I am forced to come up with new dreams and goals. The problem is that all the new ones seem impossible. Winning an award in a dance competition will be difficult against other women who probably dance 4 hours a day. Getting a low stress job that pays $90,000 a year without having to work overtime seems like a difficult find. Having a boyfriend that I’m actually proud of who doesn’t make my life worse is another difficult find. Traveling alone to Vietnam and Cambodia seem scary. Learning to sell stuff at markets seems daunting but a necessary way to figure out how markets work on a micro level. Working at a fashion company sounds cool but I doubt the money is in it. Oh and a CPA license…. right…. that’s gonna be a lot of work.
I’m kind of tired actually. I’m tired of pushing myself because the returns on my investments have yet to yield anything but mediocre at best and outright losses at worst. I’ve built my resume, it is time I start capitalizing on it.
I think I need a break.
I envision that in my old age, after all the major phases of life have passed, I’ll often ponder back on my old emotions. I’ll spend time remembering how long it took me to classify and name them all and how hard it was to tame them to the point that I can appear in public without incident. I’m sure by then they will sit in my mental tool box as neatly arranged packages, patiently waiting until I decide which ones I need to use for life’s, now commonplace, occurrences. I imagine that by then they will know how to take their turn and so very few of them will take me by surprise. Even if I am by chance caught off guard, I will have already developed a technique for being caught off guard and so will not cause anyone alarm. Thus all this time I now spend starring endlessly at my ceiling, pondering what the hell just happened, will eventually be spent on more practical tasks. Though I am sure I will miss these oh so wild states of fits and passion that currently embarrass and haunt me. I will probably yearn to encounter new pieces of myself and wish that it all wasn’t so well organized….
How does it feel to be a slave in a world so full of beauty? Do you feel grateful to your silent and invisible master for allowing you feel the touches, smell the scents, see the sights, taste the flavors, sense the unknowns? Is it really better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Would you not be happier in a box where at least you know what everything means? Have you not noticed that no one wants to talk about it for too long? Have you counted how many times the subject has been dropped? When you speak of it, have you not seen the look in their eye that tells you they think you are mad for talking that way in this situation? Do you really think you are the crazy one?