I have large crush. On a real, living human, who is cute and kind and so completely unavailable to me that it almost physically hurts. We hung out a week ago- it was our second time in each other's space. I felt like I was giving my best performance. I wanted to be fun, charming, smart, outgoing, and wise. And CULTURED- oh my gosh, I wanted to seem so freaking worldly, ew, like chill out! I was juggling several, revolving, thriving personalities to impress a person that I'd met one time. Of course, that one previous meeting lasted half of a day and all of the night. We both struggled to sleep innocently next to each other in a tiny double bed. I could feel the warmth of our shoulders touching each other, the full weight of his bare shoulder rested on top of mine and it was magic. His shoulder literally sent me to heaven. The bed moved when he moved, and I had microscopic awareness of his every shifting movement. I willed him to put his arm around me, but never happened. I watched him kneel down and adjust the room temperature. He breathed, he dreamed, he mumbled the word "sorry."
I've singularly romanticized an experience that has catapulted my fantasies and intrigue into a human that I want to know more about and be around more and simply have more of. But why- after only one or two events, do I like this guy so absurdly much? Who, mind you, disappears into the ether every time he leaves Nashville, which is often, too often. He moves into another life, with potentially another woman (who knows!), and doesn't speak to me. He's neither asked for my number nor given his. It's like a strange, bewildering, wonderful mirage. A guy with growing, glowing potential for something that may be quite nice, fun, maybe even something resembling infatuation or love or passion- who envelops himself into the world, almost like he's absorbed away- into another life, other cities, or countries, and I'm instantly in the past and assumedly forgotten. He doesn't belong to me and never will, judging from what I've experienced thus far. Though I secretly (not so much secretly to innermost sweet and romantic self) hope I'm wrong- though I'm not wrong. I'm rarely wrong on my intuition; I just rarely listen to it. He doesn't belong to me, and he's not beholden to me just because I feel such immense interest and hope. And I think I may enjoy being around him? He belongs to himself. I belong only to myself and I need this blog to remind me of this every second and every time my hope wants to peek through the smog of my lonely (but quite lovely) hallow of the world.
