There should be no expectations of you and me beyond what is possible for us here: the use of the senses over the use of the mind. Brain over mind, body over civilization.
My soul never stepped inside another person’s so easily as it stepped into yours. I felt safe in there. Nothing changed. I was just physically there with you. It was a world without mirrors.
It seems that any woman he gazes at for more than two seconds become ensnared in his workaday web, spun out of boredom and sexual desire. Who can blame him for spinning it?
I had a creeping fear that our world is turning into a more individualistic world and that we should all try harder to fight this shift. This fear has propelled me for quite awhile. It’s seemed noble, worthwhile. But still the doubt kept crushing me.
You don’t strain the way I do to maintain a facade of order and rhythm. You just are. And in your presence I just am: I feel normal.
The problem of being me, I’m slowly starting to believe, is not a curse to be carried tiredly through life, or to be mollified by reckless pleasure-seeking (I’ve tried that). Instead it’s a challenge. A worthy challenge.
Being single appears to be a celebration to the young(ish) men in my life. To their exact female contemporaries, it’s just an accepted reality.
Give me another dose, I say, and move determinedly towards him. He needs encouragement, I say, once I get there and find him desperately trying to shirk the flawless shell I insist he wear in my presence.
I cannot see the middle of a relationship at the beginning, but I can see the end from the middle. I know that there will be an end. There has to be. This is just a stop on the road.
I think about the things we’ve done when we’re away from this place, and I wonder whether once we get far enough away from its gravitational pull, we spin off our axes, we lose our way.