Proof that life itself, unedited, is more complex than anything our puny imaginations can dream up: I receive a letter from the first person I ever made love to, perhaps the first man I ever really loved, the afternoon after the morning I first have sex with someone with whom I am not in love. I am slowly and somewhat painfully rebuilding the friendship I had fumbled with the first; the latter and I, as it will turn out, will have no romantic relationship at all, just an awkward but precious friendship we are continually trying to maintain.
As I read his letter, I could feel myself reaching back out towards him; my heartstrings, so recently bound in one now tendriling their way towards something new.
Today I am suddenly very lonely, as I suddenly, sharply realize how alone I am here. It should be no surprise: I moved here, alone, knowing no one, I live alone, am slow in making friends in the best of circumstances and have been so busy with school so as to have little time for socialization anyway. So here I am, alone, filled with the knowledge that the brief intimacy I shared will not be repeated, for reasons too numerous and too damned complicated to explain, largely because I’m not entirely sure I quite understand them. And I am sad.
Generally I have no great fear of solitude; that is why I think that my continual, unconscious questing after relationships is due to an emotional boredom – an impatience with stillness – more than an actual fear. Although yes: I am afraid of being alone in the sense of having no one at all. If my friends and family were to abandon me, if I had no one to call and no one to run to, no place to hide my face when I need to or to find a hug and a bowl of soup when circumstances demand, if I were alone in the world, then I expect I would not last very long on this earth. But physical aloneness, in this moment and this place, the mere absence of anyone else in my immediate vicinity with whom to interact, that isn’t usually very problematic. I entertain myself well enough, usually, but these recent days… I asked it already, what am I afraid of? And I still wonder, because nothing brings itself up. Except maybe that I’ve just been hesitant to have to sit and think about this thing that just happened.
He and I did a strange dance around each other, this man who I shared my bed with, but not my heart. And that is a first for me, dramatic: I surprised myself, and I think it surprised him as well, and I am surprised again at both how well I am handling it and how poorly. We circled and circled, like nervous teenagers, giddy and lame in each others’ presence, and finally the truth came out: I want to kiss you.
So far; so good. But then all the complicating factors come rushing in from the wings, waving their arms: Previous commitments, conflicting needs, and indecisive desires. He steps back, and, taken by the glitter of something out of reach, I follow. He shakes his head, changes his mind, comes toward me, and I panic and flee. But I glance over my shoulder to see him in rejected retreat, take pity, return. Encouraged, he reaches toward me, only to find I have turned my back and closed my eyes. Too many factors, too many urges at odds with each other, too much damn confusion. Eventually we stumbled into each other, both moving the same direction at the same time for once, acted decisively, and immediately realized our mistake.
I read the definition of conflicting: not able to be followed or acted on, because each requires different and incompatible actions, and this seems terribly and impossibly accurate. We absolutely needed to be together, and we absolutely couldn’t possibly ever be. So then: one tender morning, laced even in its progress by a sense of pathos, the fragile poignancy of goodbye. A final, hurried kiss before the day pulls us apart, the vow that our friendship, fragile also, will be fought for, and will not be lost.
And while I am still reverberating with the dull ache of change, the mail comes, and with it, his letter. Picture it: Forgiveness for what you thought was an unforgivable act, a profession and confirmation of the love whose existence has been a cornerstone of your sanity for years, and also the knowledge that because of your actions, something of incredible beauty has been irretrievably lost. Winter light filters through the window, incense fills the air, your house is a mess, your emotions have been thrown around mercilessly for a week now, and ending with this. Not to mention a ten-page paper to write by next Tuesday; not to mention some lesson to be learned.
But I am not distraught. The practice serves me well: I breathe, I write, I drink my tea and try really, really hard to let my emotions come. I try to sit with them a while, then let them go. Disappointment: I had hoped that we would come to a longer, more involved conclusion, something more lasting than one fitful night’s entwined sleep and a burst of sorrowful passion the following morning. Comfort: All is not lost, and I do have confidence that our friendship will survive. Relief: To hear that the love I so value has not been withdrawn is a blessing I do not hope to deserve. And loneliness: Taking me by surprise, the silence of my apartment crowds in around me, the empty pit of my stomach, my skin churring with the absence of touch.
I breathe, I write, I sit with my nebulae of feelings, and then I try to let them go. I try to take comfort in the idea of the universe: these things happened because they had to happen. Decisions have been made, done is done, and now the only thing to do is figure out what I was supposed to learn from it all.
Perhaps that honesty does what it is supposed to. Even in the throes of our uncertainty, we were honest, saying: I do not know what I want, though perhaps the greater truth would have been to say: I am afraid to face what I want. Because what we wanted was not noble and romantic: we were not in love nor expecting to be. We wanted only each other’s company, and touch, and smile. But it is hard to say, “I do not want to love you, only to hold you for a while.” And when we finally did, the path revealed itself: our one morning, gentle and sad.
And for the other? He has been waiting for years now for me to find the honesty in myself to say, I’m sorry, I love you, forgive me, so that he could say I already have.
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