I'm sorry to all the men I wrote long, rambling, emotional messages to. I'm actually sorry! Not that any of them are going to read this (lol) but I'm sorry. Like, who wants to get correspondence from a person you don't care about, or can't care about? No one. I realize this because when men who like me write me long messages, or talk about dating in real terms before anything real has transpired between us, I'm completely turned off. This kind of affection is all projection and who wants to be a white screen for someone's crazy movie? Not most healthy people.
Thing is, I've only wanted to write long, rambling, emotional messages to men who didn't like me! How embarrassing, right? But true. I'd get really juiced up and high and be practically exploding with feeling at the slightest hint of disinterest. Oh, wait...you DON'T like me? Or, better, you CAN'T? You're completely unavailable? PERFECT.
I'm trying to figure out how to open my heart because when your heart is open and healing, you don't want to write long, rambling, emotional messages to people unable to receive them. I'm trying to figure out how to heal my mind because when you have mindful awareness, you don't want to write long, rambling, emotional messages to people unable to receive them. I'm trying to align my body with my heart and mind because when your body is aligned with your heart and mind, you're something akin to "whole" and you don't want to launch long, rambling, emotional fragmentations at strangers.
Here's something else: I love every word I ever wrote to them. Deep, desperate truths about the inner workings of my heart, mind, and body were encapsulated in every, single rambling thing I ever wrote. And perhaps because I'm an obsessive writer type, I'd read those messages over and over to understand myself and catch some kind of saving grace swirling around like a leaf in the wind.
A few weeks ago, before the holidays, I encountered a gorgeous, talented young artist and we shared an impromptu end-of-evening stroll. I was excited by his beauty, youth and talent, and by our gentle chemistry. As we walked under the silent dome of snow coloured warm tangerine by the street lights, I expressed my amazement at the romance of winter. He told me to say it out loud, to really scream out my joy and so I did: I yelled out my love for the snow. Later that night when I got home, he sent a friendly message to thank me. This was his first mistake—he should have left romance under the dome because I got high on his friendliness and launched fragments in his direction, even writing: "I find intimacy excruciating."
I'm often advised to be measured with men so my ebullience doesn't overwhelm them, but when I'm inspired by someone's beauty, it's impossible not to show it. Some part of me knows that if I'm drawn to him, he must not be available, or well-suited to me, and soon the moment will be over and ruined by my addiction to loneliness and so I have to get it all out at once. Every moment of love is just like this one with the gorgeous, young artist: full, punctuated with desire, bursting with feeling and colour and warmth and most importantly, love is ephemeral—so ephemeral that love is barely a memory.
I can only hold love long enough to write it and then it's gone, melted on my chest like a snowflake.
Maybe that's not so bad, that I went through life like that. Loving someone for a moment of pure ecstasy, launching feelings in their direction, then finally coming home to a state of wholeness, and picking up the petals, those fragments, and laying them on my heart like second skins, and picking up the diamond chips, those tiny, little letters, and fixing them onto my mind like scales, and picking up the snowflakes, those trillions of snowflakes, and warming them on my body to wash myself of myself.