I’ve sat down so many times and attempted to write about you. It only makes sense to. You should be my biggest muse. You’re the person I dream about, the person I love, touch, and kiss. I constantly crave you. I should be able to create the most meaningful poems, stories and thoughts on you. It should come so naturally, so easily. I should have ideas pop up about you in the middle of the day, out of nowhere, and desperately run home to write them out. I should be able to write short stories, and long stories and intense stories and silly stories, all about you. I should be doing all these things when it comes to you and writing, but I don’t.
I’ll sit down to write about you, I’ll start off focused and passionate and then when I’m about three sentences into a piece, like clockwork, I’ll lose direction. I’ll become misguided about how I feel and conflicted as to whether what I’m about to write is a love story or an angry rant. I’m not ignorant as to why this all happens though; I know the reason exactly.
You see, we don’t make sense; I’m convinced the most beautiful things never do.
If someone asked me to explain our love affair, I wouldn’t be able to. I still don’t understand it and I don’t think I ever will. It’s why I can never put thoughts together on a page about you. It’s why when I try to write about us my mind jumps and leaps and criss-crosses and becomes a storm of messy, confusing, scattered ideas. It’s why I can’t ever form one single non-contradicting thought on you.
There is no exact beginning or end to our story. There are a bunch of pauses, halts and back-steps. There are a bunch of sparks and leaps and make-ups. There are a lot of kisses and fights and dances and laughter. There are a bunch of inside jokes and mean words and nice words. There are a bunch of pictures and stories and loving touches. There are a bunch of things. None of which follow any direct pattern or order. We’re all over the place.
We’re the uncertainty within certainty. The sporadic within routine. The desperation within the fulfilled. The madness within the sanity. The beginning within the end. The basic within the extraordinary. We’re everything and nothing all at once.
This is the first piece I’ve ever finished on you and the one thing I figured out by writing it is, maybe we aren’t meant to be figured out. Maybe we’re meant to be messy and contradicting and confusing. Maybe it’s okay that we make no sense. Maybe that’s how we’ll always be. Maybe it’s how we always should be.
Our love affair was all over the place. It was confusing, messy and risky, but my gosh it was also beautiful and I wouldn’t want it any other way.