There’s no right or wrong, and I don’t believe in destiny crap, but when a man is balding and is fifteen years older and you’ve just met him twice and you don’t know much about him except that you love him, he’s just so wrong. It is so wrong.
But anyway, here’s what I wrote in the first few days of my falling for him. Let’s pray (though I don’t pray) that this is just infatuation and that this, too, shall pass (and let it happen very soon, please, for Christ’s sake. I love him and I love this feeling, BUT———but.).
Possibly
My computer hibernated again. The red light is blinking, signaling its low battery. I hadn’t touched it today until tonight, when I thought of writing about you. I have to write about you. I have been thinking about you. All day. For days now. It’s a wonderful feeling – to be possibly in love. I get stupider. I almost get killed crossing the road yesterday. I burned my hand touching a hot pot tonight. But I laugh it all off. I laugh because I feel so good. I feel lighter, I feel invincible, I feel ecstatic. (It’s like a drug where I don’t care anymore what I say, what I do. I don’t care about the world. I only have this feeling. And it’s like a drug it feels so good.) And I want to keep this feeling. But I can’t do that—(I can’t keep you)—so I want to keep at least this memory. But since I can’t keep this feeling, I can’t keep this memory either. So I have to document it – document you, your eyes, your smile, the way you talk, the way you talk to me, the conversations we had under the boozing and the yellow light of the bar, music cuing, and in your car, again, music cuing, the questions you ask, your teasing as I order you around, as you gladly oblige, the time you asked me to dance, which could possibly be just a joke, or just the booze, as it possibly always has been, and the way you send me home, as you memorize my way home. It’s a wonderful feeling – to be possibly in love. How it almost killed me yesterday (as I was daydreaming in the middle of the road that you’ll pass me by), how it almost kills me each time I remember the awkward replies I gave you, that I almost revealed everything to you – (scary, disgusting) skeletons in the closet that have been haunting me, my fragilities and loneliness that I’m afraid I have scared you, or have made you laugh, that you’d never look at me the same way again – the normal way, the normal girl, how it almost kills me when I go back to your good night message reminding me to just smile, possibly (telling me) that you’ve already read through me. You see, it’s a wonderful feeling – to be possibly in love – but it can’t be. Love is not just a mere feeling (no matter how wonderful it feels). It’s not the heart talking, it’s the mind telling me that I’m possibly in love. But it also reminds me, of the differences between us (like mountains and seas, the years behind us, the experiences and relationships, the maturity and innocence, the learnings and earnings, the standards and dreams that we’ve built and the what-could-have-beens. So while it’s early, while I still have the time, the distance, the logic, the sense, I’ll wave and say good bye, I’ll take a few steps behind, I’ll step a little farther. Yes, it’s a wonderful feeling – to be possibly in love – but not when it can’t be and you know there’s just no chance. And it kills me now that I can’t get you out of my head.
