It’s Sunday night and raining here. It’s been a movie marathon day, ranging from one dystopian scifi movie to another… and a romantic drama – I just finished watching The Notebook and am now a messy, snotty, puddle of mucus and tears. I should have stuck to the dystopian flicks. Nothing like watching two old people die at the same time, while holding hands. I suppose if there was a perfect way to go, that would be it, wouldn’t it?
I’m trying to remember what it feels like to love – the “aimer fort” kind of love that makes your knees weak, your blood course just a little faster and your heart break because it feels so dangerous and wonderful all at once. I am trying to remember the optimism of my youth, when I knew with certitude that I would love and sometimes (more times than not) be loved back. It wasn’t merely a possibility but a given, the natural order of things.
Now, I’m not so sure. How many people actually experience that kind of love? Is it left behind with youth, and it’s inherent naïveté or cockiness (perhaps both in same measure)?
That girl… she’s drifting further away from me each day, and it scares me; scares me that she will leave and never come back.
Oh hell – I know I don’t look the same as I used to thirty or even twenty years ago. To be honest, it doesn’t bother me. I’m so much a better human being now than I was then. I’m everything that I had hoped I’d be, minus a few things that I still have to temper and perhaps outgrow. But for the most part, I’m so much better than I imagined. I just haven’t figured out how to convey that to the world yet – or to the someone – that has been waiting for the me that I am today.
I’m really not any more special than anyone else; we all are pretty wonderful, in our own way. It’s all a matter of opinion and perception and… well, maybe need.
We see what we need in others, that we perhaps don’t have in ourselves. Someone to tell us the truth when we don’t want to hear it, in a way that we’ll listen. Someone who will hear us when we aren’t even coherent to ourselves. Maybe that’s just me. We all search for different things I suppose.
My heart hurts. Sometimes I don’t think I can stand it… and then another day passes, and then another, and pretty soon a week and a month and another year goes by and I wonder how that happened, that passage of time without living fully, and I wonder what it will take for me to truly live before the days stop.
I listened in to an audio conference on Saturday morning and the speaker she said that many people live to 70 but they live the same year over and over again, while few really live 70 year’s worth of living.
I don’t want to be to one living the one year over and over again, but the last time I really, truly, felt alive was twenty years ago, when I’d decided to marry and move to California.
I don’t know how I could have made such a mess of things, and not fully and wholly grasped the opportunity that had presented itself to me then. It wasn’t about the marriage or the relationship, per se, but about finding myself, and what made my heart sing and building a life – for myself – independently of anyone but myself. How could I have not been able to find it, sooner, rather than later?
But I know how. I was waiting on Steve – I was waiting for us to build something together and I waited so long for that to happen that the time for me to do it myself passed and I had nothing to show for it in the end. What have I contributed to this world? What proportion of what I should have given to this world has actually been given? I wonder, sometimes, how profoundly I have failed.
Anyway. I need a shower. And perhaps a tea. Yes… I’ll make myself a mug of decaf earl grey tea.