I've never been in love before. Infatuated, yes. It's easy to confuse the two because at first it feels the same. Butterflies and bated breath and desirous soul. But eventually, the knowingness of the nothingness seeps in, and one is left with two choices - content self with the reasonable facsimile of passion, or keep it moving.
I've chosen the path of least resistance before. Clung tightly to this man, who I had deftly painted in godly brush strokes. Took me a while before I could see he'd let her steal the parts I loved best. Even then I fought for him. Even when he told me that to love me as I required would require too much of him. He was tired and not ready to search for those portions that hadn't really been stolen, just hidden in plain sight. Awaiting willingness to rediscover.
So sad was I to learn that I would not be the one to move him out of the groove of bitterness and regret. I tried to mold I into she though. Lost all sorts of valuable things in the process. Self most importantly.
I loved him, I burned for him...until I was burnt out. Until I could no longer deal with the itchy-scratchy feeling of being "just Lisa." Only when no part of me quailed at the thought of a life without him did I began the process of leaving him behind. I loved as much as a young woman that hasn't found whole self could - blindly.
And then I grew up and wished to be seen. I wanted a man that could hold my gaze past the time it took to get between my legs. I became infatuated with even a glimmer of understanding. Confused when the avoidance and corner-painting began. Thought it was me for a long time, but now I know better. It wasn't meant for them to stare at me directly ('cause i reflect the light of...).
I loved them for a time. They helped push me forward/upward, after all.
But I've never been in love. Not even with him. I now recognize that sensation of falling as the tug of awareness. What could be, if all was well with the world and life hadn't dealt us these grievous blows. If we weren't so fearful. If we let go and stopped going back and reading for memorization the bad parts of the story. If.if.if.
To be in love requires submission, which means I have to be granted permission to feel the way I do. I no longer want my love to be an intrusion or imposition. I don't want to love at; I'm ready to love with.
I've never been in love, but even this nebulous representation of who and what and how he is has been enough to set my spirit afire. Curious and greedy and I yearn to know all of his inner. I want more to love.
I need though, to be wanted in exactly the same way. Need him anxious and incensed at the thought of how - I smell - I taste - the way my voice sounds late at night. How I look in the morning. The little things which compose me. I need surrender and a fall into we sort of reciprocity.
As much as we are, anything less than that is settling.
Knowing what I now do, it seems mandatory that I allow this persisent wish for more to die. Let the story unravel and loosen its hold upon me. It's hurts though, because I stood at the edge of the dream and...it was more than the sum of we. Plus beautiful. The spiraling vertigo of it has held me in its sway for so long. But one could go mad pining this way.
So I must get my bearings and walk. Not away, but distant enough to regain perspective. Peace of mind. But the pieces of mine I've given are his to do with as he pleases. I did it freely.
And besides, those parts regenerate...eventually.
See my life is about...constantly overcoming self.
Posted by Lisa at June 3, 2007 08:42 PM