Feminine Energy/Element

I have met the man of my dreams. He exists. But I cannot have him, and I’m totally fine with that.

I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I struggled with my biases the first time I laid eyes on his picture. His glasses. His hair. But most importantly, his words. Using verbs like “splashed” and “sprawling.” I remember my grandmother telling me she fell in love with my grandfather’s voice before she’d ever met him (he was a singer). Well,  I fell in love with his words.

We chatted on AIM, then we talked on the phone for a few hours because our thumbs were hurting. He’d moved from the South like moi. A kindred spirit. Feeling alone and in need of a friend (and maybe, a warm body to lay next to). He’d suggested meeting up in Chelsea… at three in the morning. Looking back, I should have, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

I felt very tortured the few times we hung out. Against my better judgment I spent the night with him. Nothing happened. Maybe it should have. For Christmas, I bought him a “tattered” notebook, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and I wrote him a letter on parchment paper with a fountain pen. I think everything cost about $100. The most expensive gift I’d ever bought. Actually, maybe the only gift I’d ever given to someone out of love.

He thanked me. Months later, he was back South. Said NY was too desperate for him, and he loved the slower pace. He got a girlfriend. I stayed in NY, miserable and cold. I tried having phone sex on my birthday, in the wee hours in the morning, but I was thiking about other things in the back of my head.

It’s been three years. At first, I’d thought about moving down there to be with him. But that would have been silly. Why would I do that? And what would have happened if things didn’t work out? I seem to be in a constant conflict with being so willing to up heave my life just to be with someone. I don’t feel very grounded at all. I remember my therapist telling me she thought it might have to do with my father being in the military and always traveling. I often wished I could have been a gypsy like that. I’d like to think I’m a gypsy at heart 🙂

I still love this guy. But it’s contained. Not gushing and burning all over the place. It transcends romantic love. The only term I can think of to describe it is the “urge to merge.”

We chatted briefly today. I check on on him from time to time. It feels like I’m catching up with an old friend. Not OMG HE’S ONLINE LEMME TALK TO HIM.

I asked him how he was. Fighting and fucking, he said. He’d adopted it as his maxim, he said. That it was what kept the world going around. I said I wish there was less fighting, and he said no.

I think we have similar religious slash spiritual beliefs. I said even though I like to believe we live for thousands of years, it pains me to know people die and unnecessarily. I know it’s part of the “plan,” but it kills me to know people the world over get murdered. That women get raped. That children starve.

He said I was human, that i had a heart. I smiled. I told him that since getting older, I am slowly embracing my feminine element. But it never comes slowly. It’s like the floodgates. I’d explain how I’d seen a baby shoe on a fence and I started crying. He said it was a beautiful thing.

I don’t quite understand it, but I love the gray areas when it comes to intellect. But with emotions, it’s only black and white. I’m either hot or cold, not tepid. I become such a mess and I’m both repulsed and amazed by it. I have a hard time watching funeral scenes on TV or movies because it makes me think of my grandmother. I balled my eyes out but I tried to keep it together. I contorted my head weird because I tried turning the light out without my boyfriend knowing. I tried sliding some tissues underneath the pillow. I tried really hard not to sniffle.

And wouldn’t Ya know it, the bastard wasn’t asleep and he asked me what was wrong. I told him to leave me alone but ended up telling him that I was crying over my grandmother.

And I’m sure I’ll cry over seeing a baby wave at me this week.


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