Hello, it’s me again
Where I “come from”, the good things don’t last. Sometimes they peter out and die a slow, natural death. Other times, pieces of your heart are forcefully yanked out and becomes bloody pulp. But, one way or the other, the end has always been an inevitability.
I sat beside you one day, not too long ago, and asked whether you believed that relationships have an expiration date. Your answer was one which baffled me then, and still does. You replied that all things run its course, but that this did not mean that every relationship has an ending.
So. This is me, confused. And this, of course, is the reason for this piece…
In the beginning of any new relationship, there is only newness…the person a breath of unfamiliar fresh air…a puzzle to put together with no idea where the pieces fit, a book with hundreds of pages yet unread…an unseen landscape of lush, lazy meadows and treacherous mountains.
I have heard, many times, that familiarity breeds contempt. And a part of me believes this to be true…if one initially dons the rose coloured glasses which skews one’s sight and blurs out peripheral vision. Take them off, and the quirks one once found endearing begin to grate, the differences no longer adorable but irritating to the point where biting one’s tongue is no longer an option. The beginning of the end, so to speak.
But here I am. Months later. A person who has never believed that rose tinted glasses served any purpose unless I was happy to lie to myself about what it was that I saw through them…and I am not. I want to see things and people in their true form, as I present myself in the same. I crave truth more than I need illusions. Time is too fragile a thing without imposing lies upon oneself.
And I still see you as I did on that first day! The stars which are surely in my eyes when I am in the same place you are in shine as brightly. The touch of your warm hand on my cooler one still sends a delicious shiver up my arm. Your lips on mine still take my breath away and make my eyes flutter closed involuntarily. Your mind still dazzles me with its brightness and forces me to think new things. And your character still surprises with its warmth, integrity and strength. Some of your quirks mirror mine almost exactly. Others still only make you different to me. None glare at me menacingly in a way which makes me want to close my eyes and run, blinded, in an opposite direction.
But this can only mean one thing…surely it will be MY quirks and MY differences which cause open sores which ooze poison steadily into what appears to be something breathtakingly special…until it dies an ugly death. MY habits which will eventually not touch your being gently, but will grate hard enough to cause this beautiful thing to bleed.
And now I sit here, with my throat closed up from the almost physical pain this thought causes. I am not ready to think it! What if the puzzle I am is a picture which is undesirable once it has been completed? What if the pages of my book are a nightmarish horror story you can’t bear to read? What if your anticipation of me dulls as you put me together?
I sigh deeply when I think these things, but it is the uncertainly which chokes me like black smoke from a house burning from the inside.
I know that life does not provide the answers we seek when we seek them. Not often, anyway. And I know that life’s journey is strewn with the unknown…and that this is what makes each day a beautiful mystery. But I also know that some days become dark and cold, especially the ones which we expect to remain bright and warm.
I have always lived in a way that I can confront the bits about myself which I do not like and be practical about my faults and my shortcomings. I sometimes overcompensate. I am imperfect, and I have as much ugliness inside me as does any human being does. And my overcompensations may even be the things which are unlikeable or unsightly to you.
Still pondering, but I have no new thoughts except that one cannot live or love halfway simply because one does not see the middle or the end, as one does not stop reading an interesting book simply because one does not know the ending. And I love a good book…become engrossed in its pages…lost even sometimes. I learn to love or hate each character with fervour. I climb into the story as though I can see and hear and feel what they do. A favourite book can be reread a thousand times without my ever becoming bored, even when I knows exactly what lies on the next page and its characters become as familiar as the lines on my hands.
And more than a puzzle, you are my favourite book by far… I could do nothing. I could simply sit tight and continue enjoying your story and watch you read mine. This is life…who knows what happens when you turn the page?