Moments of mischief and luck, sucker for soft and such

It has been a while since I have found company sweeter than my solitude. My friends offer me a reprieve from the hellscape of our world today, but for so long I have enjoyed my own company the best. Not having to concede to someone else’s agenda, taking in everything at my own pace, walking this life not lonely but alone, nothing was more appealing to me for the longest time. 

Now this is not to say that I do not relish in solitary time anymore. There is quite an obvious inference that can be made from my previous statements, but I implore you to keep an open mind with what I have to say. For the past couple of years (though it’s felt like an eternity), I have seemed to exhaust my thoughts and prose on heartbreak, on losing my way in life and finding it again, on pitfalls and rebirths, on the seasons and the months, making a muse out of fruit and the color blue and the bathroom floor. Sometimes, it feels as if I have written about all that I can, and I’ve lost my breath and there is nothing more for me to say. But as it may be, on the contrary, seemingly out of nowhere, I have found a new subject, not something but a someone. Not a platonic someone, not a familial someone. 

What peculiar timing, I think to myself sometimes, the way this someone bloomed into my life when it became March, the start of Spring, the renewal of hope and sunlight. The sentimentalist in me wants to desperately construct some sort of meaning out of this timeline, that it must be a sign from the universe, a subtle arrow that I am heading in the right direction. But I know there is no divine logic behind it all, that our meeting was not fated in the stars, that I myself am not sure if I believe in soulmates. Yet, how beautiful it is to feel those emotions once again, that a look from him in my direction makes my heart beat a little faster and his smile makes me nervous in the most magnificent way.

Despite all of that, I still write with extreme hesitation. I have confessed ad nauseum that my writing is sacred to me, that for me to write about someone is to cement them into the history of my memories, to etch their name into a gravestone of my livelihood, for them to live permanently in my consciousness. I do not just let anyone in through my front door. But little by little, he has somehow snuck in through my back entrance, though not unwelcome. The little conversations we had on my porch, strolling through the garden of my backyard, laying in the grass counting the animals in the clouds. His company, not a constant but consistent, visits that kept him lingering in the back of my mind, has slowly infiltrated my life in a way where I can not imagine not seeing him through the window of my kitchen as I do the dishes. So I left the back door unlocked, I put fresh flowers on the dining table, and as he entered my house, I slowly made a home out of his presence.

 I am scared as hell. I know it is not a stranger in the abode I have created for myself, at least not a stranger anymore, but for someone to hold my emotions in their hands so delicately, that one untied shoelace can cause everything to come crashing down, scares me. With the devastation that forever altered the wires in my brain, I am cautious every day. But after an eternity (also known as the past couple of years), meeting someone who made me enjoy conversation in the same stirring and delightful way an afternoon cup of coffee livens your day, it is difficult for me not to find something special in that. Sometimes I can not wrap my head around the fact that we have lived under the same moon our whole lives and yet now, our paths have intertwined. It has been so long since I have looked for the same face in every room I walk in. I’m so scared, I’m so excited.

Seafoam in his eyes, it’s like diving into the cold ocean on a hot summer day whenever he looks at me. I admire the texture of his mind, appreciate the way our humor overlaps yet we are still so different. If I am a car rushing down the freeway, he is the coastal sea view, and I can't help but slow down just to appreciate the landscape around me. We did not ignite with a burst of flames; it was a low simmer over time, a heat that slowly warms you up in the most comforting way. For too long, I have felt like a collection of dismantled almosts. He does not complete me, because no one should fulfill your cup except yourself, but my solitude has a greater competitor now. I find that most days, I do not mind the warfare.

I do not anticipate writing about him any deeper than this any time soon. This vulnerability is daunting, and I would be lying if I am not still fearful of the hurt that can arise from it. But in the meantime, I am grateful for every second that we are in the same room. He points at the stars in the sky, but I am only looking at his hand.