(no subject)
I drifted from a certain sort of understanding and an utter sense of confusion, on a love seat, comfort less than desired...while Tony Soprano shouted fuck thirteen times on the tv in front of me, and the love of my life gazed at me discretely, or really not so conspicuously as he assumed, from the couch against the other wall.
He was watching me sleep...so he thought. Watching me pretend to fall asleep to his Soprano obsession, a part of our routine that is hardly close to routine now. I wanted some sense of normalcy, really. Some sense of...this is me, and this is you, and we are now like how we always have been before.
I wanted to jump from my body, from the lonely self that existed for whatever reason, from the solitude that bled my desolation these past three weeks. Solitude that endured, right there...in the presence of the one I loved. I wanted to be held, to tuck my head under the chin of man whose heart I thought, would answer...would cancel...my insecurities with every beat.
Such a selfish girl.
He was watching me sleep. Because to watch me sleep meant that nothing here was different. His eyes on my lips, begging his mind to conjure up a kiss...his eyes on my chest, the rhythm unwavering, unchanged, unaffected like the constancy of the tides...in and out...predictable, certain, absolute. Dependable.
To sleep with tension so thick is nearly impossible.
Composure kicked in. I restrained myself from tumbling back into who I was, who we were...a self rising from me, an imaginary self and an imaginary forward flip-flop put into reverse, a back handspring right onto the love seat again.
I was not there to make him happy, I was not there to apologize, I was not there to relinquish the rights of the Love Laws, I was not there to absolve the Amore Anarchy. I was not there for any reason really, except to be there. A separate self had driven me there, had placed the keys in the ignition, had pushed the accelerator, had made its way down State Street, while I drifted from understanding and an utter sense of confusion in the seat that was not...the passenger's seat.
My semi-permeable shell lost its semi.
To sleep beside tension so thick is nearly impossible. It begs to be held, to hold on to you. To grip you, and simultaneously, wrap you so tightly that to free you from its grasp would be its goal. It is the ultimate in understated paradoxum.
I cannot be certain I would like it any other way.
I cannot be certain about what is real. What is right.
Contradiction consumes me all too often. If I did not lead myself this way, I would not be the conglomerate of selves that I have ever become.
If I did not lead myself this way, I might have lived a dream.
If I did not lead myself this way, I have have lived our dream.
Thread is easier to sew than its seams are to to rip apart.
He was watching me sleep...so he thought. Watching me pretend to fall asleep to his Soprano obsession, a part of our routine that is hardly close to routine now. I wanted some sense of normalcy, really. Some sense of...this is me, and this is you, and we are now like how we always have been before.
I wanted to jump from my body, from the lonely self that existed for whatever reason, from the solitude that bled my desolation these past three weeks. Solitude that endured, right there...in the presence of the one I loved. I wanted to be held, to tuck my head under the chin of man whose heart I thought, would answer...would cancel...my insecurities with every beat.
Such a selfish girl.
He was watching me sleep. Because to watch me sleep meant that nothing here was different. His eyes on my lips, begging his mind to conjure up a kiss...his eyes on my chest, the rhythm unwavering, unchanged, unaffected like the constancy of the tides...in and out...predictable, certain, absolute. Dependable.
To sleep with tension so thick is nearly impossible.
Composure kicked in. I restrained myself from tumbling back into who I was, who we were...a self rising from me, an imaginary self and an imaginary forward flip-flop put into reverse, a back handspring right onto the love seat again.
I was not there to make him happy, I was not there to apologize, I was not there to relinquish the rights of the Love Laws, I was not there to absolve the Amore Anarchy. I was not there for any reason really, except to be there. A separate self had driven me there, had placed the keys in the ignition, had pushed the accelerator, had made its way down State Street, while I drifted from understanding and an utter sense of confusion in the seat that was not...the passenger's seat.
My semi-permeable shell lost its semi.
To sleep beside tension so thick is nearly impossible. It begs to be held, to hold on to you. To grip you, and simultaneously, wrap you so tightly that to free you from its grasp would be its goal. It is the ultimate in understated paradoxum.
I cannot be certain I would like it any other way.
I cannot be certain about what is real. What is right.
Contradiction consumes me all too often. If I did not lead myself this way, I would not be the conglomerate of selves that I have ever become.
If I did not lead myself this way, I might have lived a dream.
If I did not lead myself this way, I have have lived our dream.
Thread is easier to sew than its seams are to to rip apart.