It’s on nights like this that I feel especially lonely.
I spent the last two hours looking for an image that would express my mood, but this was the best I could come up with. When I went outside, to see if the street lights would offer me more, I passed by open windows, each one filled with a different coloured light. It made me wonder what the people were doing, who they were with, what mood they were in.
It’s been a day alone. A day without contact. A day of rain and greyness, and living vicariously at Robson Arms.
So here I sit in the dark, with my apple and honey swirl pie and Ovaltine, writing because I haven’t said enough today, listing to songs of love and hate. Feeling like an old soul.
Wondering tonight if I’ll dream, or sleep soundly, or dream without remembering.
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
—He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats
She knows how much I’ve fallen for her.
And by giving her my heart in such a way, she’s sharing the burden. The last thing she wants to do is hurt me, and she thinks herself selfish for wanting to be held just so. But I know what I’m getting into. I know the risks.
So I told her not to hold anything back, because there’s nothing she can do, no boundaries we can define, to make me love her any less.
There’s no point in denying ourselves the joy of what we have now. To be lying next to each other when we talk into the early hours of the day, bodies pressed against one another while the morning light washes over us, is worth any chance at being hurt. We can deal with the inevitable later.
So she treads softly, on me and my heart.
And rests her head on my chest when I hold her.
I left when the sun was setting. Along the way, the road stretched out infinitely before me, as if to say that I can always get away, and there is always more to go. The tree line danced and waved across the horizon, eventually disappearing with the sun. Then the lines of red and white in each direction guided me all the way to Darren’s house.
In it are little things from the house I grew up in — some candles here, some cabinets there — that my parents didn’t want after the divorce. So strange to see innocuous objects from my childhood in a different setting.
It was the first time we’ve been completely sober together since we were kids. No alcohol, no weed.
I found out a couple things I wouldn’t have known otherwise:
- My dad started dating someone. He is currently single again.
- He has a dance floor at his house and a nice car. This is typical of my dad, who loves his toys.
- My mother is still insecure.
- My parents still see each other, but not alone. The current social rule among the group of parents, is that you can’t invite one to a party without inviting the other.
A weekend of sweet indulgence, late nights, and intimate conversation. No one understands my relationships the way Darren does, because we both share these quixotic ideas about love. It was so comforting to be able to express myself on these things without having to explain my underlying feelings, as if someone could truly understand me, especially important in this current phase of my life.
It made me realize that home isn’t where the parents are, something I used to believe. It’s an idea.
A comforting place you can go to get away, where you’re completely accepted for who you are.
When I left, the flowers on my kitchen table looked like this:
When I got back, to my surprise, they looked like this:
She made the bouquet herself — hand-picked the flowers, chose the colours, even made sure it was symmetrical, knowing my odd habits — and left them there to greet me from my journey home.
I never ask for these things but she does them anyway.
Which is exactly what makes them so significant.
Two in one day…you know it’s serious.
I’m driving out to see Darren for the weekend. He’s five hours away, and it’ll be my first trip out of the city in the car. My car.
There’s a certain satisfaction to filling my trunk with odds and ends — tripod, sandals, snacks — that I couldn’t have carried on a Greyhound bus. Got my GPS and a full tank of gas.
I had Summer Sun by Ellen ten Damme playing here.
I can’t wait to drive with the windows down while the sun is setting along the horizon, Summer Sun playing on the stereo. To be going somewhere by myself.
Killed my top rated playlist at work. Even have all the songs burned to several CDs for the trip. My head is filled with lyrics. I may also begin my audiobook of Carson McCullers’s The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.
I’m going through some hyperactive euphoria again, this contradictory feeling of the scary and exciting unknown. The best part about hanging out with Darren is that each of us understands exactly how the other feels, even though we may not understand it in ourselves. Something which is especially important right now, even though I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay.
I just need to get away for a while.