Bittersweet Christmas
"You are more complicated than I thought...", you said after a pause. Cautiously. You were still processing what you heard.
"You have no idea. I'm intricate like clockwork, baby."
"That's a bad line."
But you laughed. A bit nervously, but you did laugh. And that's exactly what I wanted.
I wasn't joking though.
The truth is - I am complicated, yes. In the way that I want things. In the way that all of the things I want clash together into a nightmarishly contradictory vehicle that then takes me to places I have no fucking clue how to get back home from. Take this mess, for example. In a more traditional situation this would have been a break-up phone call. A "You're a nice guy, but..." conversation. It had all the familiar signs: the strained small talk to kick things off, the apprehension in your voice as you got to the real reason you called. Even the display of openness and care afterwards had the same apologetic quality to it as a final goodbye hug. The one that says "I'm sorry I hurt you just now - but there was no other way". But for you and me, this was just a way to reestablish the status quo that got a little shaky perhaps somewhere along the way, bent out of balance with the vehemence of my wanting things.
What was surprising for you, I'm guessing, was my full awareness and acceptance of the status quo. And my willingness to go along with it while obviously wanting it to change. You decided to talk to me because you felt guilty of using me, but you didn't expect to hear that being used was basically what I signed up for. And trust me, I've been used by far less conscious people. The way you are hesitant to use me to the extent I would undoubtedly allow you to is a virtue that you may not recognize in yourself - but I do. And it makes me even happier to be used.
For someone so hell-bent on keeping my freedom perhaps I should be more bothered by how eager I am to give it away and play the servant with such devotion to the role like I'm playing Romeo. It's almost like the whole reason to have freedom in the first place is to find someone worthy - and beg to be chained to them. Freedom without a chance to give it up is just a sort of loneliness, really. But there is a very fine line between a servant and a slave. I don't mind being your servant. I actually enjoy it when I manage to do it well, because that's what I choose to be. Being a slave would probably feel very different. Probably.
Told you I was complicated.
Is it weird to get emotional because of a signature on an email? It probably is, but I have reached that milestone. The apologetically nice message after the call - that one word at the end turned it from just a lovely note to a high-calibre sentimental armament. And you must have known my Achilles' heel by now. So I should thank you for doing that. You didn't have to. Which made me feel like you were probably a bit complicated yourself - maybe even more than you dared to admit.
***
I don't usually do Christmas, so it's a pretty low bar, but still - it's the best Christmas present I've ever gotten. The envelope is smooth and golden brown. Like the song. It has a single letter B written on it - that's me. Inside is a postcard - the first time I've seen your handwriting, which is by itself unremarkable, but it's yours. Among other things it says "Thank you for always treating me like gold." As if I ever had an option to treat you any other way. The Polaroids inside are hazy, but discernible. "Artsy" you called them, approvingly. You signed and dated them as well, I'm not sure when - at some point between me taking them and you giving me the envelope. It was daytime when we shot them, but on the photos everything but your body is swallowed up by darkness.
Outside my window there is a cell tower covered in colored lights for the holiday season - shining like a giant Christmas tree through the cold night fog. This is the sixth year when my December nights have been illuminated by it, and it looks like it's going to be the last one. I will miss it. Maybe it's one of the few things I'll miss. For some reason I hope that I can show it to you before I leave. I don't know why. If I wanted to get poetic (and cheesy), I could say that you have also been illuminating my nights with bright, vibrant colors - and that one of these days I know it will be for the last time. I don't know when, and I hope it's not going to be for a while, but as you made it clear - it will happen. And I am ok with it. Not really - if I was really ok with it, I wouldn't be writing this at 2 in the morning. But... I will be ok with it. Eventually. Since I don't seem to be getting a choice.
Still, this Christmas cell tower is going to stay with me forever. I have hazy, dreamy photos of it too - it's awfully hard to make clear night-time photos of something so large on my definitely-not-cutting-edge phone. I have hazy, dreamy images of it in my head as well - I remember the outline, if not the details, much like I still, after almost half a year, can't seem to recall your face when I'm not looking at you. It takes me no effort to recognize you stepping out of a cab, but when I try to remember it later it's almost like it is blurred. There is a joke there, but I'd have to explain it. You probably wouldn't laugh.
I want to remember it. I study it when you aren't looking, trying to take in as much as I can: the arch of your eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, the thin curved lines of your lips. Your green laughing eyes that may have started all of this. The smell of your hair as your head rests on my shoulder during a bumpy seaplane flight. I hope one day it will finally stay with me longer than just a few hours. Maybe then, armed with the ability to actually remember you when you're gone, I will end it myself - like you said, start looking for all of those things I want in places where I can actually find them. I doubt it though, since in very simple terms what I want is exactly the opposite: never needing to memorize your face, but instead being able to reach out and touch it whenever I'm feeling lost.
It's not actually that complicated, you know. It's just hard to say over the phone.
"You have no idea. I'm intricate like clockwork, baby."
"That's a bad line."
But you laughed. A bit nervously, but you did laugh. And that's exactly what I wanted.
I wasn't joking though.
The truth is - I am complicated, yes. In the way that I want things. In the way that all of the things I want clash together into a nightmarishly contradictory vehicle that then takes me to places I have no fucking clue how to get back home from. Take this mess, for example. In a more traditional situation this would have been a break-up phone call. A "You're a nice guy, but..." conversation. It had all the familiar signs: the strained small talk to kick things off, the apprehension in your voice as you got to the real reason you called. Even the display of openness and care afterwards had the same apologetic quality to it as a final goodbye hug. The one that says "I'm sorry I hurt you just now - but there was no other way". But for you and me, this was just a way to reestablish the status quo that got a little shaky perhaps somewhere along the way, bent out of balance with the vehemence of my wanting things.
What was surprising for you, I'm guessing, was my full awareness and acceptance of the status quo. And my willingness to go along with it while obviously wanting it to change. You decided to talk to me because you felt guilty of using me, but you didn't expect to hear that being used was basically what I signed up for. And trust me, I've been used by far less conscious people. The way you are hesitant to use me to the extent I would undoubtedly allow you to is a virtue that you may not recognize in yourself - but I do. And it makes me even happier to be used.
For someone so hell-bent on keeping my freedom perhaps I should be more bothered by how eager I am to give it away and play the servant with such devotion to the role like I'm playing Romeo. It's almost like the whole reason to have freedom in the first place is to find someone worthy - and beg to be chained to them. Freedom without a chance to give it up is just a sort of loneliness, really. But there is a very fine line between a servant and a slave. I don't mind being your servant. I actually enjoy it when I manage to do it well, because that's what I choose to be. Being a slave would probably feel very different. Probably.
Told you I was complicated.
Is it weird to get emotional because of a signature on an email? It probably is, but I have reached that milestone. The apologetically nice message after the call - that one word at the end turned it from just a lovely note to a high-calibre sentimental armament. And you must have known my Achilles' heel by now. So I should thank you for doing that. You didn't have to. Which made me feel like you were probably a bit complicated yourself - maybe even more than you dared to admit.
***
I don't usually do Christmas, so it's a pretty low bar, but still - it's the best Christmas present I've ever gotten. The envelope is smooth and golden brown. Like the song. It has a single letter B written on it - that's me. Inside is a postcard - the first time I've seen your handwriting, which is by itself unremarkable, but it's yours. Among other things it says "Thank you for always treating me like gold." As if I ever had an option to treat you any other way. The Polaroids inside are hazy, but discernible. "Artsy" you called them, approvingly. You signed and dated them as well, I'm not sure when - at some point between me taking them and you giving me the envelope. It was daytime when we shot them, but on the photos everything but your body is swallowed up by darkness.
Outside my window there is a cell tower covered in colored lights for the holiday season - shining like a giant Christmas tree through the cold night fog. This is the sixth year when my December nights have been illuminated by it, and it looks like it's going to be the last one. I will miss it. Maybe it's one of the few things I'll miss. For some reason I hope that I can show it to you before I leave. I don't know why. If I wanted to get poetic (and cheesy), I could say that you have also been illuminating my nights with bright, vibrant colors - and that one of these days I know it will be for the last time. I don't know when, and I hope it's not going to be for a while, but as you made it clear - it will happen. And I am ok with it. Not really - if I was really ok with it, I wouldn't be writing this at 2 in the morning. But... I will be ok with it. Eventually. Since I don't seem to be getting a choice.
Still, this Christmas cell tower is going to stay with me forever. I have hazy, dreamy photos of it too - it's awfully hard to make clear night-time photos of something so large on my definitely-not-cutting-edge phone. I have hazy, dreamy images of it in my head as well - I remember the outline, if not the details, much like I still, after almost half a year, can't seem to recall your face when I'm not looking at you. It takes me no effort to recognize you stepping out of a cab, but when I try to remember it later it's almost like it is blurred. There is a joke there, but I'd have to explain it. You probably wouldn't laugh.
I want to remember it. I study it when you aren't looking, trying to take in as much as I can: the arch of your eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, the thin curved lines of your lips. Your green laughing eyes that may have started all of this. The smell of your hair as your head rests on my shoulder during a bumpy seaplane flight. I hope one day it will finally stay with me longer than just a few hours. Maybe then, armed with the ability to actually remember you when you're gone, I will end it myself - like you said, start looking for all of those things I want in places where I can actually find them. I doubt it though, since in very simple terms what I want is exactly the opposite: never needing to memorize your face, but instead being able to reach out and touch it whenever I'm feeling lost.
It's not actually that complicated, you know. It's just hard to say over the phone.