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"...and in that [man], there's a heart I love.
I'm gonna take it with me when I go."

And I'm going to go. And when I do, I'm going to look for what I love in that heart; try to find it in someone I can have without guilt or fear.

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"But when the goal blinds you, suffocates you, parches your throat, when healthy shame and sickly cowardice scrutinize your every step..."

"Why puzzle over it? [H]e'd gather speed again and vanish - and tomorrow a different one would flash by, and thus, in a succession of disappearances, [my] life [will] pass."

How do you get it so exactly, Vladimir? Surely you, too, must have known forbidden passion and longing - of whatever variety - to be able to so simply and startlingly capture the ache of the unrequited.

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How can this be tolerated? This bliss, this incomparable bliss?

How can he take me to the highest highs I've ever been to, and then make me plummet so low? He offends me without thinking, sometimes does such ridiculous things...and then he'll look at me and sigh and say one of the most beautiful and poignant things I've ever heard. And suddenly it's obvious that when we fumble, when we step on the other's feelings without understanding how, it's because we are reacting out of fear; fear of what the other one will think or say or do and...and why shouldn't we? Conventional wisdom (and what a powerful argument for socialization that we, who scoff at tradition and conventionality should be hindered by such a construction!) dictates that this is impossible; that you cannot have this synchronicity with someone you barely know and have never beheld in the flesh.

Hell...conventional wisdom dictates that you cannot have this synchronicity with anyone.

And how can you fall in love with someone you've never met?

But we ache for one another. And sometimes my heart beats so fast because of him that it makes me lightheaded. And sometimes it's so beautiful and thrilling and everything that I can't take it, and I actually feel my heart tug away from me, toward him. And it hurts, it hurts unbearably. And he feels it too, because we have unknowingly made each other shed tears, simultaneously...and we can't tell until we both wipe the tears from our cheeks at the same time.

But we fear. And we wrap ourselves in the blanket of comfortable physical lust and silliness and only edgewise do the important things get in...

...until tonight.

We talked about nothing, nothing, for hours. There were hurt feelings and misunderstandings on both sides during those hours. There were feelings of frustration, disappointment, wondering what the hell I was doing, on my end. Part of me wanted to call everything off, go back to my feelings of isolation and "this is the way all relationships are". I might've known this couldn't be more special. I might've known everything I felt was just passing euphoria disguised as something trenchant, something more real than anything I've ever known. Part of me...part of me wanted to go back to M.

And then, finally, just as we were saying good night - two hours ago - everything of import, everything of meaning, came pouring out of us both. And suddenly the front of lust didn't matter; we couldn't even think of the other sexually, much less pretend to be interested in that aspect of our coming-together. Suddenly the fear dissolved and we were just real, open and completely honest. And full of tenderness and caring for the other's very essence.

Of course, there is healthy trepidation, as there must be. This is so new...so conventionally impossible...so far from anything either of us beieved to be "normal" that we just...can't believe it. But both of us make the other want to believe in this thing that we feel, this so-new thing that confuses and exhilarates and destroys boundaries, even of time and distance. We took this leap together, though we couldn't take hands and we can't comfort each other with our physical presences. But we destroyed huge parts of our own lives for this...this nameless thing that my brain so wants to call "love", but it isn't, somehow it's more, and I curse the limitations of my own native tongue for not giving me a better way to express what I feel for this boy...this man.

He will be here, in my arms, in five days.

...I can't write any more.
Current Mood:
...
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I can't yet talk about this in the open, so I must write here. I write to remember...always remember...so no matter what happens, I will always have a chronicle of this joy, that I might never, never forget it.

C is officially coming to see me. Now there are no barriers between us, nothing but distance separating us. We have lost M and K, respectively, and now we belong to no one but ourselves and, in our way, to each other. In three weeks, he will be here, walking down a so-familiar airport concourse, coming toward me. He will be smiling, he will be nervous, he will be beautiful. In three weeks, almost to the day, he will be in my arms.

It would be an understatement of epic proportions to say that I am excited about gaining him as a lover. The things he promises to do to me, how unselfish and purely skilled he seems in the art (and I'm convinced it is one, especially in his artist's hands) of lovemaking...it's exhilarating. But it's daunting, too, and so it's very nice that we have a policy of "no pressure". While both of us freely admit to wanting one another, we understand that anything can and will happen while he's here, including the possibility that we'll get back to his hotel room on Friday night, sit on the bed, open our bottle of red wine...and just talk, and fall asleep with each other. I did fear that he would feel slighted if something physical didn't happen, but he's the one who keeps interrupting our more longing sigh-filled conversations with, "Even if nothing happens, I'll be so happy just to be there with you". I believe he cares about me deeply, for more than merely physical reasons. If his words weren't believable enough, he left his fiancee for me.

...he left his fiancee...for me.

I still feel awful about that in many ways. I never, ever wanted to hurt K. But C keeps assuring me that he didn't leave her "for me", as I put it. He says I was the catalyst, the light that shone on his relationship with her and showed him how he'd rushed into an engagement with a girl who wasn't everything he wanted because he didn't think everything he wanted existed in the world.

Will I be everything he wanted?

Who knows? The future is never clear. But they say that happiness requires the possession of three things: something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to. I have work and school and life...I love my best friend, and I can see myself falling for C someday...and C's coming is definitely, definitely something to look forward to. I am happy; happier than I've been in so long that this feels like an entirely new emotion to me. The next three weeks are going to drag on so long, and the two days he's here are going to be so short...
Current Mood:
Hopeful
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He understands.

He still wants to see me.

Current Mood:
Amazed
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I am the architect of my own misfortune.

You'd think I'd have learned with A, with the unholy mess that I just narrowly avoided. You'd think I'd have learned to keep my eyes and hands, if not entirely my thoughts, firmly affixed to M, who I love in spite of everything.

But I went and fell for C. And after pining away and beating my head into walls and crying and wishing he'd pay attention to me, wishing he'd like me the same way I liked him, lo ("And behold!"), he does now. He wants me, the same way I've wanted him. And it's possible with him, so deliciously possible, in ways that things never were with A. He could be here, just a few months from now, and he could be mine, if only for a night.

And I told him I couldn't do it. That though I'm abhorrently attracted to him, though if I were single (even if, I must admit with some shame, he was not) I would have him in a heartbeat - when he started talking seriously about a physical affair, it felt like my heart physically recoiled, hit the breaks, skidded everything in me to a nerve-wracking halt. I told him I want him to come see me, that I would like nothing more than to spend time with him, go out to dinner with him, bask in his presence. And I won't deny the chance that something physical might happen. But not sex. I physically could not betray M with the whole of my body.

I suppose this means that no matter how bad my thoughts get, I'm still something akin to a woman of character. I suppose this means that I really do love my idiot boyfriend.

And now I sit here, nervously awaiting C's reply, knowing in my heart that I've let a part of him down, even if he responds positively. But I just. can't. do it. I could kiss him. I could hold him in my arms. But I could never forget, even in the heat of whatever passion he may ignite in me, that I have made a commitment to M...a commitment that at times I may wish could be dissolved, but as long as it stands - as long as I love him, and I do, the great buffoon, I do - I can't spread my legs for C and pretend that it's okay.

I feel very much like Van, teeter-tottering on the edge of indulging Lucette's desire for him, but utterly unable to forget Ada. I remember the pain his final decision caused. I hope things work out better in this case.


Once again:

"you are a miracle, but that is not all
you are also a stiff drink, and i am on call
you are a party and i am a school night
and i'm lookin' for my door key
but you are my porch light
and you'll never know, dear
just how much i loved you
you'll probably think this was
just my big excuse
but i stand committed
to a love that came before you
and the fact that i adore you
is but one of my truths"
Current Mood:
Conflicted
* * *
I knew - perhaps have always known - that this had to happen; that our relationship had to come to this. I knew that my novelty could only last so long in her eyes, and that once it wore away, I would fade into nothing more than a bit of mundane scenery along the road of her life, as she moves ever forward onto newer and more interesting things.

Still, I feel moronic. I feel pathetic because I thought I had left behind, long ago in another life, the me who could see that she was being trampled on by someone, and allow it to happen anyway, out of love for that person. It appears that I have not.

The worst part is, I don't really care. My hurt is more indignation than sorrow - losing her wounds me only in that now we are forced to enter into this awkward "keeping up appearances" phase. Because we have meant something dear to each other at one point, neither of us are willing to just completely sever ties. Neither of us are willing to risk hurting the other, who, we think in spite of much evidence to the contrary, must still care about us deeply somewhere inside. So we continue to pluck halfheartedly at the few frayed strings still binding us.

That's all I'm doing now, tonight. Miserably, sheepishly, I'm strumming one of those poor worn ties while she sits there making a far less convincing show of things than I am. And I'm fully expecting... even desiring...to hear that our plans just won't work out. Horrible to admit, but true. Would that I could be completely honest with her now, as I once was. Would that we could just end this sad farce and move on.


You saved my life. Who knows whether or not I saved yours in return? Either way, we each entered the other's world at a time when we were needed...and now, I suppose, that need has run out. Maybe it's not too late to repair things between us, regain some of what we've lost...but are either of us prepared to do what it takes? It's so much easier to cry "distance", let go each other's hand, and never say goodbye - but mean it all the same.

I love(d) you.
* * *
she said, "you are a miracle, but that is not all
you are also a stiff drink, and i am on call
you are a party and i am a school night
and i'm lookin' for my door key
but you are my porch light
and you'll never know, dear
just how much i loved you
you'll probably think this was
just my big excuse
but i stand committed
to a love that came before you
and the fact that i adore you
is but one of my truths"
* * *
The absolute Worst Thing™ about our situation - hers and mine - is that we'll never be able to see each other face-to-face. Her significant other is still far too angry and fearful about what I represent; the percieved threat harmless little me never meant to come off as. And meanwhile, the boy she has feelings for is allowed to stay over at her house while the significant other is away, all because when she and the boy tumbled, the significant other was involved. So that makes it okay.

I'm not jealous of anyone who shares her affections alongside me. But when so many people seem to come into the bed she shares with her lover, and I am not even allowed to tag my name and return address onto the package containing the present I'm sending her for Christmas, I have to wonder why exactly it is I - who has never met her and who has no real means of doing so - and not any of them who is seen as the biggest and worst danger.

Whatever the reason, it's terribly sad to think on.
* * *
I think I'm doomed to keep running into him, the boy I once called my "faunlet of an evening"; the boy at least two years younger than me who had my head in such a whirl at two consecutive conventions...and then again in a high school Japanese class I went to talk to...

And now today. A surprise from out of nowhere.

I didn't talk to him. I'm not sure he would've recognized me if I'd tried to, though the me who's 15 lbs. lighter and with far shorter and redder hair doesn't really look all that different than the me who drilled him in kanji just a year ago. He looked the same as he ever has - still achingly beautiful, still Van Veen in glasses and khaki shorts...and still, quite surprisingly, able to send a thrill of desire like a shock of water through the desert of my libido-starved nerves. He's the first boy I've seen since committing myself to M. who has done that to me, filled me with such immediate and unforseen hunger. I suppose it makes sense, though. I've wanted that boy since the first time I saw him; doubly so since we danced. It seems like such a long time ago now, my dulcet little darling, but I still feel the material of your suit under the pads of my fingers, your warmth against the length of my torso, your delicious weight pressed into one lucky thigh.

Of course, it's nonesense to think of him. I love M. completely, and recognize that this boy is and always has been just a passing fancy for me - the one who McFate allowed that I touch for a moment, and whom I then had to let go. And I'm fine with that. It's better, really, because I don't think anything can match the total happiness and comfort I have with M. But I'll always think of him as my fauntlet, and remember the dance we shared - the night the whole world took a turn with him and me on that crowded floor - and be happy for the relative anonymity he has for me. After all, were I actually to get to know him, befriend him, or share a relationship with him, then he would cease to be bathed in the romantic light in which he is always displayed in my mind's sugar-rimmed mirror; cease to be my little Van, my lithe, porcelain-and-poison prey, and become instead just another boy, dull and course and flawed as all the rest of humanity...and that would be a very sad thing indeed.
Current Mood:
Dreamy
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