Perhaps I’m insane. . .that thought makes me laugh, though sometimes too, I give up. A girl in a dream, running uphill against the thick syrup of sky. I continue to dream of fingertips touching, the gravity of a deep kiss that might send the earth spinning in new directions. Not asking for much here.
I know the rules. That I am not allowed to get excited like this in this lifetime, it means things are off or upside down, the floor is definitely dropping out. Any time this wave of convolution washes through me, I have already lost. I am too easily intoxicated by the mere indication that there is someone else as curious about life as I am. Absurdity as seduction, a rabbit-hole that cannot end. I simply fall for it (into it) every damn time. This lifetime, I am reminded, is meant for solitary pursuits that only graze up against this. Whatever this is (nothing, it’s nothing). “I didn’t know you were so into rollercoasters,” folks scoff. I need to be tumbled, undone, thrashed so that is that. How do you ask this of another? Come with me, we shall scream into the abyss joy-filled and drunk on adrenaline and laughter, where no one is damaged by a heart’s mistake. I will carry you into the dark wood and tell you how beautiful you are to me. This soul is old, is wise, is sometimes tired of going it alone. But the weight of hope is a gruesome black hole. Everyone who has met me knows this, senses this. Even when curtsying for a queen, I am more than (blink, blink) you want to handle.
But here’s the rub: it’s true. I just came from a lunch with an old friend/lover/friend/lover/friend/lover/friend. He still toys with the me from the past, loves me as a dear friend in the present. And I once fell in love with him, then had my heart shattered across the universe. Life rocks and rolls over us. Anytime I happen upon one who might bring me more to life than life itself, and I ache for it unendingly, unceasingly, as though I have discovered a new source of oxygen, sustenance, controlled chaos. It seems to be better when I forget that this exists, practice living in a state of equilibrium that spills only from me.
I am a Two on the Enneagram, the need to be needed type. This conundrum is often described as a shame around sorting out intimacy. I haven’t quite worked out where the middle ground lies. I have dear, wonderful, loving friends, which may be as good as it gets this experience. My weird attachment stuff is still shadowy, though I practice being as open about it as I know to be when appropriate. I suspect that the person for whom this energy has recently stirred is unavailable, based on what I know about my unconscious patterns doin’ their thang. That passive resistance tugs at me, opium in the veins. I will whore myself out again and again for this weird, old, useless game. But somehow writing that reassures, tosses out a buoy, helps me float along rather than being pulled so far under. I am quite good at drowning, loving Mother Ocean with my entire being, that I shall give myself up if not put on pause. Even now, after all of this time. What fun, folks, the long-suffering cycles of soul work. But it helps me see how beautiful I am, this is, as well, in a very human, humbling expression. I can hold myself here, loving myself for being a tiny mess with giant longing. I can laugh and carry myself home. It’s a brilliant vitality this younger wild woman holds. I won’t abandon her.
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