In missing him, I felt the continuation of hollowing. I lived in memory. Flipping to each page of our three month tale to find a jump start in inspiration. At times I was surrounded by people and chatter, and I would hit my auto-pilot button, while zooming off into the piece of the past I had collected.
I wanted crawl back into the tapestry of his cotton skin. When I found myself buzzing in the face of anxiety, I flew to the sound of his voice that lived in the center of calm. When the prickle of loneliness crept up and nestled behind my neck, I dove back into the crook of his arms. When I wanted to run to him I did; letting my lids fall, and our chapters race over me as they came.
People asked me how I could possibly love someone after a mere few days. Awkwardly, I never had an answer. But I knew how, it was just too hard to articulate. When we were in the same room, the air became calm, and the parts of my skin that always felt rigid, began to collapse in comfort. I knew because every thought that poured off of his tongue, I could never drink fast enough. Because I could think as loudly as I wanted around him, and he let me stumble until I excavated every thought. When his were lips on my most wanting flesh, traveling to the area of electric desire, I watched the way his shoulders moved. The elegant muscles of his back, choreographed perfectly; the tangled dance of my beautiful creature. I knew I loved him because all of the wants, and needs, and secrets, I held in the romantic attic of my mind, he echoed back to me; in our strange, and sometimes overwhelming connection. I knew I loved him because even as a writer, and even though we don’t share the same first languag,he some how always had the words for the ones I didn’t. He was perfect in every atom of my vision. He was the feeling of both relief and exhilaration after the first drops of a hot shower. He was the companion for the lonely gaps between my fingers. He was the ocean that crashes with your eardrums, always creating brief moments of delirious ecstasy. The perfect mold against my body. He was home.
Each new moment in an affair of secrecy builds into something tangible at every second. And even if there has been a clause for separation, and words of endings, and days of silence-we become not only ourselves but the experience. It resonates deep in your lungs, and creeps slowly into our bones-each rib breaths in and out with the pungency of an enigma. Friendship is the bare bones of a body that has been plucked of a transpired romance. And in the accusation of sunlight it is the most pure. Each wrinkle of past nights in a strange bed that became a familiar spot, and sweat that formed in between skin pressed together into one shape, and explosive sex that went from lustful stimulation into a craved routine. As we turn into pumpkins, and the magnitude of those brown eyes are pulled away with no effort-I sulk back into the expired daylight. Out from the comfort of the unseen-dragging with me the increased weight of a severing uncertainty. Once more I’m left as the bare bones of a relationship left quiet until spoken.
Multiple strings of events have led me to write a post that may get me in a bit of trouble..or more so lead to a debate or two, but I think it’s time I said it. In the simplest plain english this is how I feel: in any industry that requires intelligence and a magnitude of professionalism, young attractive and usually vocal women, are not taken seriously. And to be perfectly honest I am very sick of it. I have not so much felt this in a room full of women, but more so a room full of men- where my credentials whether they are big or small are belittled and brushed off as the next blabbering female. No, I don’t consider myself a feminist, and I am hardly trying to accuse every male of being a misogynist but it is simply the lack of respect I have received lately, largely from a male demographic, that has set me off into a rant. Being a 20 year -old, female aspiring writer, 3rd year journalism student, with a lot to say and a loud way of saying it, I have had to keep my opinions under a respectable lock and key for the sake of my professionalism. But whether it is in a community newsroom, or a small Vancouver freelance conference in the back room of a bar, how is any young student, writer, female, whatever, supposed to be taken seriously if there is no credibility given to us? Aren’t students, and more specifically youth supposed to be the “future?” We are the ones bringing our new vital education to the table, and I am still confused as to why I am made to feel inferior; I should be inspired by those with experience in the business-not patronized.
So I am shamelessly going to say as a young 20 year-old aspiring writer, and a vocal female, I hope when I kick ass in my career, it’s the ones who snickered at me in the newsroom that have to read my piece in the paper every morning.
That moment when you get a brief, but significant insight into someone elses life, and see them through a new lense and you become recharged with their words and also heavy with their insides and all at once tangled in their emotions.
I believe that writers, or people who seek comfort in writing, have a stronger ability to be in touch with human suffering. A classmate of mine is currently going through a fresh breakup, and he has confided in me a great deal. We are hardly friends; mere acquaintances at best. I have kept a fair distance from him since the start of school almost two years ago, but in light of his situation, all barriers I built have been deteriorated. I have no answer for my rapid change of heart other than that to see someone go through an immense amount of suffering, opens up a new window in your soul. My experience in his shoes, was one that I have yet to fully recover from. July the 11th tore me to an unrecognizable state. I spent a month walking around with no sense of myself, and a minimal grasp of reality. However the reason, I came through the other side, as successfully as I have, is all thanks to the amazing support system that helped me back to my feet. All of this sounds exceptionally cliche, but in all literal honesty I would have been nothing, and still nothing, without those in my life who helped me solve my own puzzle. I see him suffering and I feel complete obligation to do the same. Watching another person battle searing heartache, has caused my own heart to hurt. Love is a universal understanding, as is pain, and suffering, and I am unable to understand why we as humans will continuously search for love only to end up building your own demise? Why are we so innate with the connection with others, but not our own selves? He said something very interesting to me today; he said people are always searching for their mate. And even when you are fully self sufficient in being alone you are only at the 50% point of your potential happiness. People, humans, seek their other half regardless of the fight that happens in the process. We are not whole without another.
However, after witnessing my pain in the body of another, and already in my own conflicted state of a seperation; I can only feel one thing: If this is love. Devastation, pain, loss, do I really want it as much as I thought? Do I really want my yellowbird, or more appropriately, do I want to have to go through multiple sparrows to find it? Can being only at 50% with myself lend to self actualization? There are yellow feathers out there to connect with my own.
Lover, lifer, writer. Journalism student, and Vancouver freelancer. This is my personal blog with a lot of my own poetry and intimate entries. I am continuously inspired by successful, talented and innovative women, and I try to reflect that as much as possible. I hope you enjoy.