Unrequited.

I’ve been thinking about love, and connection… reminiscing almost, looking back on what I have learnt so far. The journey of understanding only really started little more than a year ago, and before that I suppose I was searching without ever having evidence.

I’m musing on the subject, almost as though I have reached the end of my life and now try to make sense of each fragment of feeling. They came like blades of grass in the wind at the time, and often I never quite grasped them whilst they were there. Though I’m hardly old, and a future without potential suitors is highly improbable, but I always find that the emphasis falls on feeling that connection.

Certainly I am lucky, not to be looking for exclusive companionship at all costs. The world is full of unfussed settlers- that’s what marriage is mostly about. No, I cannot let a man in physically or emotionally if I do not sense a deep compatibility from him almost upon immediate impression, and still nothing is confirmed. The luxury- or often the curse- is a rarity, to meet someone with unlimited interest and a different kind of intelligence perhaps to that of myself. What use is a significant other if they are not a little bit challenging, or do not open my eyes to something?

These thoughts are closer to the surface presently, because it’s the first time in a long while where I have not had an affection in waiting. Nobody to rightfully muse about, no two-way possibility, no one waiting, no one to wait for.

Through all of the trial runs which alerted me of the grey depression settling induces, I remember the first time I awoke next to another, and felt completely right atop the harmonious bed- in a room long christened by cigarette butts and cans of larger. And looking back over my writings at the time, I was standing at the stem of naivety with no conception of the giant awaiting at the top. If I have ever been in love, it was with him. There was no more thinking beyond my immediate intimacy, and eventually the need to exchange my company was lacking. What I loved the most was at first the unique instances of affection, the squeezes of my hand and how he entered my space without invading it- but instead bearing a warm feeling of protection. Then how I could sense the trapped lonely person, struggling on the inside against the problems he could never quite confront. I understand him now- I am like him. We are almost boy and girl, unconventional and defiant of who we’re supposed to be. Of course we differ in many ways, and whereas he takes the conflict inwardly, I disperse it creatively- into songs, or poems, letters, journals- pure unadulterated honesty. Which so far has brought me to one main conclusion… Each moment is passing, most affections are temporary, and the compatibility found in love’s sweet potential is only there then, at that time. Enamoration is likely to intoxicate again, but every beloved is not without their own special detail- and that is the person you will never match in a million years. Those blades of grass in the wind should be seized as soon as you feel the breeze send tingles across your skin.

Since the first, there has been only one other creature of divine comfort- who was again a misshape to convention. Although not a child of the arts or literature, he was instead a scholar of life with great interest- and interested in my deeper, and often darker creative side. Though I feel he felt inept amidst my canvasses and poetry, and even further out of place from his own past love. The latter I understand, and reluctantly accept if we can never be. If he spoke to me about how he feels, I would empathise of course and even try to relieve some of the confusion in his mind.

But the whole affair confirms to me that feelings likely to lurk near to the heart- and perhaps even closer to gut instinct- is indeed a sincerity absent from most. And this regards all kinds of emotion. I can but try to access them with words and expression, out of my own construed version of actuality. Yet I fear others are fearful of such an act in modern-day tradition, and cannot handle what is really a sweet and complimentary admission. Once again I find myself lost, and alone in the wrong time.

So now the creative dwells devoid of muse- whoever the responsibility may anoint at the point of infatuation. Though this gives me the capacity to look backward and assess everything that initiates my besotted misadventures, and probably still enforce the compulsion to write letters and poems bereft of final gratification. But I believe wholesomely in a bigger affinity, and will try to remain outside of the easy cynicism regarding it’s potential.