A Lover’s instinct.
(Reflections)
Because I am a lover:
Because if I stare at your eyes long enough, I’d urge to hug you the way a loving mother would, and because your humanness is quite enough, right there and then, I think of nothing other than how your eyes, my long-lost cat’s, and my very dear tortoise’s have something in common, they bring out my stupidly tender self. Never in a transactional manner, never out of my own desire to contain another, just because…There’s truth to myself in doing so…
I have often repressed acts of delicacy because of how it’s sensitive to interpretation as desire. Desire as an impediment to love, a distraction, a possible but not intrinsic motive that people seem to always assume. When love can exist in isolation from physical attraction, from a potential bond developing, from a need to obsess or possess…
In my long journey of loving, I dreaded the unintentional potential invitation that I offer through my being sensuous, so I grew colder and colder, a self-destructive method more than it was a coping mechanism or an avoidance tactic, because I can survive explaining pure platonic love and appreciation but die trying to hold back a true honest human feeling.
Desire is violent:
Desire is a one-sided arrow that allows for acceptance or rejection, the purity of the intention makes both options peaceful, however for most -women at least- desire is thrown at you like a burning metal sphere that oozes shame and disgust through you, very early on. An old man entitled enough to whisper cursed words to your ears, a teacher with hands firm enough to cruelly caress you, in your discomfort, in his power, in the seeming normalcy of the act that later wasn’t, in the eyes that devour you in the air before your landing, in the perversion of a someone you finally opened up to… There are days where I think about that and I ache, there are instances where I watch a girl play and I pray she’s safe.
Hopeless romantics make the worst partners:
Yes, if untrained.
A couple months ago I had written about that, how I felt back then summarizes it, in a way…
“ An inexplicable weight stuck in my heel, carried back from every gentle encounter with [a dear someone], closer to emptiness than satisfaction, the disappointing reality of being three dimensional clouds over my nostalgia-written characters, in a memory that longs for poems and purity, I grew to learn that I enjoy the serenity and stability of being away, loving them in their absence, detaching them from their proneness to raw humanness, to error, to tongue slips, and mild annoyances.”
It’s as though they care about the fantasy of it more than the tangible present, collecting enough data to build a solitary scenario off of, making you a character, rather than an active partner in the holy act of romantic love, it’s the familiarity that comes from novels that they’re after, from movies, songs etc… This familiarity is better explained in Michelle Gurevich’s song, Love from a distance, where she says: “Now the sad songs of the war, they seem closer than before” referencing the bittersweet romance of the unfortunate separation from a lover, that is recognized in songs of wars and that makes them even closer, relatable, feeding that melancholic spirit that they got…
The use of “they” in the last paragraph doesn’t imply I’m no longer one, but rather, I’ve been somewhat trained to sustain determination even through the mundane, boring, steady phases, which [blowing a candle] are natural and inevitable. Still got a long way to go with managing uncertainty, but a recent someone whispered to me “do not overthink it” and it tickled some wrinkle in my brains.