a friend of mine once pointed out to me that i only write when i'm
sad or upset. i didn't bother protesting, but deep down i swore it couldn't
be true. i read somewhere that the best writers can write at any time -
rapturous times, despondent times, times in between. but yet, i find myself
only feeling that compulsion to write when i am in a certain mood. not
sadness really. just when i feel emotionally exposed enough to tap into
this reserve of thought deep in the pit of my heart. i am not sad, but
i'm definitely not happy. i am lodged somewhere between normalcy and depression.
what brought on this mood, i don't know. it may be that i am internalizing
the problems that my boyfriend, who i love deeply, has been telling me
about almost constantly for a week. or it may be that my friend brought
this on, evoking memories in me.
she enthusiastically carried on today about recent events of her life.
romance is budding - just barely - but she is excited by small intimate
moments. a touch, the sound of his voice is all she needs to swell with
happiness. i listened to her relate her experiences of the last week and
couldn't help but remember how things were for me, not even a year ago.
how thrilling it was, before anything happened, just to imagine myself
with him, pondering what it would be like. and then to be happily surprised
that everything turned out not just as i imagined, but better. i remember
what it felt like to walk aimlessly with our hands intertwined, and how
i relished over each little detail about himself he presented to me, as
if it were a gift. i remember discovering things about him and about myself
just by sitting in my room or laying with him in bed. each day brought
some kind of development, something to think about, something that indicated
that things were changing on a constant enough basis that the changes themselves
were subtle and expected. everything was thrilling and new.
sometimes i miss those days.
not to say that what we have now isn't good. quite the contrary, things
are better than ever. i love him more now than i ever have before, and
that love grows a little every day.
but it's funny how we don't recognize the greatest of changes until
the change has already occurred.
i can't even describe the change. it is not something tangible, like
changing your hair color or growing an inch. it isn't measurable by any
system. you can't touch it. but it's there.
we've settled into something comfortable, where false fronts are unneccessary,
where we don't have to worry about what the other is thinking. if i were
less obsessed with my appearance, if i wore jeans every day, if i cut my
hair, if i didn't paint my toenails blue, he would still love me. he proclaims
his love for me several times a day, as if it is a revelation for him each
time, but i know that he loves me, that he has loved me for months. and
i know that i love him. and it's as simple as that.
i have another friend who wrote about love, and wanted to know what
constituted love. he tried to frame love in terms that we all understand.
does this couple behave the way they do because they are in love? she stayed
with him through all his crises, is that love?
the only conclusion i could come up with was that my friend had never
been in love, regardless of what he thought. love is like the intangible
change. you can't define it. you can't put it into words. but you know
it's there. you can feel it every second of every day. sometimes it is
so intense tears well in your eyes. sometimes it is just a warm comfortable
feeling, like being wrapped up in a blanked in front of a fire. sometimes
it is just pure happiness.
but this change. it doesn't bother me. i like it, actually. i just
feel nostalgic for days past. i sometimes wish i could relive that excitement.
but on the other hand, i would not give up what we have built for anything.
although there were happy times, there were also times that my heart ached,
that my insides cried, times i'd rather not relive. we've come a long way,
farther than i think either of us ever imagined we'd come, and we've arrived
here. perhaps here is just a waiting area, a little place to sit and eat
donuts before we take the next step.
this plateau is not bad, it's just making me impatient. impatience
is something that has plagued me my whole life. it's not impatience like
you think, though. not simply the opposite of patience. i can sit and be
patient longer than most people i know. it is, however, the desire for
my life to move on. i'm always looking forward. i sometimes look at the
past and pull from it what lessons i can. but the future seems more tempting
to me. better things must be lying there for me. why can't i just live
in the moment? right now is not a bad place to be. life is good. i have
a great job, i like where i'm living, i have a network of wonderfully supportive
friends, i'm young, i'm in love. that should be enough, and recently it
has been, but right now, i impatiently wonder what might be ahead of me.
sometimes that fills me with trepidation. there are things ahead of
me i know i won't want to witness. i am reading a novel now about a woman
whose husband dies, and in the wake of his death, she discovers that he
was also having an affair. the author describes these emotions so realistically
that i feel them along with this woman. and then i pull myself out of the
book and remember who i am and what my life consists of. then the fear
comes. what would happen if... when this happens, i will feel... i hope
that i don't live to see...
all this lends to my mood this evening. it's an encumbering weight,
but i don't mind. i feel a little better now, to have spilled all this
onto my computer screen. sometimes what i have to say is not so eloquent,
but i feel better for having said it, and now that i have opened my heart
for you, please accept it. i'm fine, really. there's just a lot of stuff
swarming around in my head. but, then again, what else is new?
