rambling

I feel consistently obligated now to update this blog because I have let it sit with one entry per month & Paul is very bad about updating blogs in general. I am also overwhelmed by this desire to talk about myself on a constant basis. I think that maybe there is nothing I love more than exposing my feelings, which is odd considering it is difficult for me to cry in public. I think to some extent I became obsessed with the notion of professionalism, or I became my mother. It is probably a combination of the two.

I used to cry, truthfully, for everything and in front of anyone because crying for me was very real and very much a successful way of expressing how it was I felt at that moment. It is unfortunate then that I met too many people who liked to see me cry. I think in a way crying was, for the insecure, reassuring. It became 'She loves me and she hurts because she loves me,' and suddenly hurt was the only way my love was manifested for some. Or maybe it was all tied up in some power issues. Love should never be like that. Love should never be about waiting for things to go right. I've left almost every partner I have ever had when I felt like I was waiting on us. People say that love conquers all, but I say that the love of one person just isn't enough.

Haha! God I feel like I should be embarrassed whenever I write these sorts of things, as though I am letting anyone read the inside of my diary. I do keep some things hidden though - very few. I am still the same as I was when I was a teen in that regard, I am unashamed in a lot of aspects of my life. I think it is because I get insanely bored with small talk.

When Paul & I first started talking - and I mean outside of his snarky 'Does it look like I care?' comments - we jumped right in to conversations that could leave one emotionally vulnerable. It is exciting to be open to someone. It is exciting to be vulnerable. It is even more exciting when you find that person attractive. His hand brushed against mine once. I remember that it was dark outside and there were bumps in the sidewalk, he moved with the path and our bodies got so close that for a second I could feel his hand & my entire chest tightened up and my breath was caught in my throat.

We used to walk late nights around campus and meet on the columns. I was never sly when I would talk to him online, I'd say that I felt like going to Memorial Union to read and he knew I meant for him to find me there. He always did. We walked around Broadway and Stuart & the neighbourhoods in between talking about relationships and insecurities & friends & hopes & wants.

Do you know what I want? What I really want or who I really am? I fantasize. I fantasize daily and almost all of the day about vulnerable conversations. Sometimes I am with someone on a park bench and I am telling the person everything I am feeling at that moment and sometimes I can cry in front of that person. Someone is listening and then someone is telling me everything in that moment. I fantasize that I can tell someone about my future dreams, however trivial: about a dog and a garden and bird feeders, bedsheets and wall paint & photographs. Sometimes I fantasize that the person knows exactly what I mean - like if I say that Yo La Tengo's 'Black Flowers' is what my relationship would sound like if it had been a song, or that most of the music I hear transports me to fields and dresses and the sort of orange glow of sunshine you'd expect to see in a photograph taken from the nineteen seventies.

I really ramble, don't I?

-Monique