Big Love
This is what happens when you fall in love. Or lust. Or like. Call it what you may.
At first you are lost in the unbearable joy of connection. All of the people on this planet, all of the meetings, passing-by, constant interaction, and YOU, you two, stopped breathing, thinking just long enough to feel that glowing hotness of “Maybe?” in your chest. It seems as likely as meeting your love in the vastness of space. Floating around. Wishing. Ignoring. And then with a blink and perhaps a heartbeat or two, there is a person. A person whom, if you would have followed your immediate, most carnal instincts, would have been violently tackled by yourself. Tackled and held just so they couldn’t go anywhere or do anything because you just had to make sure they are real. You wouldn’t need to say anything…just make sure that this person lived, and breathed, and wasn’t some manifestation of supreme loneliness. A trick of the mind’s solitude.
And being so civilized as we all are, you don’t tackle anyone. Time starts back up times a thousand, and you have to think quickly to not only function as a human being, but scheme and manipulate the rest of everything forever (or so it seems) so this person can be somewhere, anywhere, that you, too, will also be…standing, sitting, talking, not talking, holding a beverage, hiding behind some other people, hoping for a quick glance, making sure to not tackle, DO NOT TACKLE, because you are a lady (or a gentleman).
And by some sheer twist of fate or luck or earthly rotations or (if you are clever and bold like me) the courage to walk straight up to this person and invite them for a drink, there you are. Sat next to one another. Talking, not talking. Talking to others to show how interesting and jovial you are. Smiling often. Not tackling. Waiting for the slow trickle of the others of this group, off to bed. Waiting, waiting, until you’re almost the only ones left. And there it is. And regardless of what happens next, this all happened because you felt…something. You controlled this by action or by existence.
Perhaps you just wanted to bed this person, perhaps something more. Perhaps what you thought you felt was just lust or indigestion. Perhaps you never see them or speak to them again…
But perhaps you do? And perhaps they saw you first, felt you first? And you were completely oblivious because you’d had one too many Blue Moon’s the night before, and were struggling to maintain composure in a tight red dress…a red dress that you didn’t even remember until they remembered it for you?
And at this point, the ecstasy of being one half of a pair is overwhelming. Constant contact. Getting-to-know-you-getting-to-know-me. Most things become, “This would be better if that other half were here, too”. Any communication from someone other than this person becomes a nuisance. Everything induces a smile. The constant downpour of daily life becomes a glistening trickle punctuated with citrus sunshine. Sweet, and simple, like honey and tea. You just know.
But you are not a new being. You did not just appear, fully grown, with no prior knowledge of the interactions of humans. You know other things, too. You know that the world is cruel at times. For every sunny day there is a torrential storm just over the horizon. You remember your own storms. The nights spent laying awake, crying to dehydration, then staring off at nothing, nursing the worst kind of wounds. The kinds that don’t heal, but just scar over, still aching when another rain is coming. Because despite all the honey in the world, you are trying to protect yourself. And then…
Why didn’t they respond to that message? Why didn’t they answer that call? Why did they word that this way instead of this way? What if they meet someone else? What if you are completely unable to feel anything for the correct individual? What if? Why? What if? Why? On and on. And so it goes.
So that sunny simplicity is the real trick of your mind, because no great crusade, least of all that of love, is easy.
And I find myself asking, as always: knowing what you do now, about how all great things end, sometimes excruciatingly, is it worth it? Do you build the monument knowing the wind and rain will someday reclaim the land?
I don’t know what is right, or what is easy, but I do know that there are some things I just cannot help. This is not just black and white; it is crimson and fiery orange like the sunset, and deepest purple like the coldest night. And I can run away from the setting sun, but I cannot run forever.
