June 7, 2012

I like the idea of you. I like it a lot. Someone who I can identify with on every level and loves me as intimately as she can. Someone who does everything and is everything I am or could be or could do. Or want to be or do, for that matter. Mutual. Exact. One piece that theoretically fits my own piece perfectly. How could I want anything other than one who sincerely knows me and would have me? Who could live in my daydreams and in all realistic intentions? How could I not jump at the fierce beauty and intelligence of my fellow writer, reader, lover of words? My artist, my thinker, my equally as complex companion? The promise of adventure in a hike, of the comfort in a good book or movie on our nights in. Taking new chances and learning new things because I know you want to too. Teaching you guitar or taking your picture while you draw on the porch. Telling one another about our day and unwinding with a couple joints and a laugh. That’s what I imagine when I think of you.

I hate the idea of you. It scares the living hell out of me. You know as much as me, if not more, and it’s off-putting. I can never decide how to act around you. I like to pretend I don’t know anything, but you know I do because you know it all too. I pretend to myself too, and I hide it. Talking to you, it forces its way out. There’s no room for me to pretend with you. You match me on every level and it makes me shiver to think about it. It’s why I can talk about “knowing” and you don’t need to ask how. Why I can speak in prose and you don’t question it. I don’t think the labyrinth is safe, so neither is yours. Even now, you’re speaking and I swear you took the words from my head. You know you can’t figure me out, but figuring that out is further than anyone’s gotten on its own. I don’t like being this complex being, and that’s why I find it hard to talk to you. You’re the one that realizes it and can take it apart because of your own being. I don’t really want to know who I am, but I think a little harder every time I see you. You represent all that is the great and scary unknown. I have no place there.

It’s too hard to explain. The way I feel about you, I mean. That’s why I stay away from you. You confuse me more than most things can. Not you, really, but you in relation to me. If that makes sense. Probably not. But then again, I probably don’t want it to. I don’t want a concrete way to feel about things or to force myself into shoveling all these decided feelings out of my mind. They come out in heaps, disorganized to say the least, and it’s too unreasonable to sort them out. I want you to be as unsure as I am. There’s no such thing as closure.