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To Tudor, but (therapeutically) more for myself. With excruciating fear, from an uncomfortable airport chair, in the blessing company of a beer can and plenty of voyeuristic eyes. Too early to steer clear of emotions, too late to back off, too shy to show it, too lonely to share it. I am a Russian missile dropped over a quiet Ukrainian community, wracking havoc in an unknown family room. Casualties - one (me) - , injured - one (same me) -, collateral damage - none. Press mentions - absolutely nothing. At least, the public is safe. Nobody's been so far dragged into any episode of "Drama Lama and her cheap letters".
There are two simple things that terrify me to the point of flopping like a broken humpy-dumpty: one night stand with you (" one" terrifies me more than "night stand") and my words before your eyes. Other than that, global war and economical collapse can deal with the new world order without getting my petty anxieties involved.
I hope words won't backfire at our friendship. And if they did, I take full responsability.
Bullet points below have been occasionally drafted during my stay in Ro. Right now, just editing.
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Airports are places of C-sectioned truth. Once you pass the security check point you are stripped off of your ability to lie (especially to yourself). Even with total strangers, in airports, one has the tendency to be extremely honest. It wouldn’t make any sense to lie to a passing human in a transient place about a fleeting feeling. Hence, out with the bloody truth! Spilled without mercy in the place of absoute honesty (airport), along with all the beans that would never grow to any sky. Here it comes: my impotent beanstalk of short-lived truth.
It won’t be comfortable for you! Or for me! But when has truth been comfortable? Try never?
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D(iana) Day. You know those days when you wake up and grab the phone to check your messages… ? No, I stand corrected: to check only one message, one emoji, one single dot, one something… and there is nothing? After checking the little nothing you never received, you beg your eyes to get back to sleep (hoping for a dream in which the one message would be there) and the hand holding the phone to get back to the "sweatless" state! But eyes and hand are not obedient anymore. All from the day before, when you hoped against all hopes for that one message, one emoji, one call, one thought.
And that’s been my day: pervert little bugger of hope.
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Disappointment. Today my superficiality overcame your superficiality. It didn’t feel good, but it was deservingly fair. Fair for one (me) and fair for once! I sent a message I shouldn't have. I let words play on my behalf in the little game of "late night messaging".
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Jet-leg is a bitch. See below the Dangeons&Dragons card.
Damage points: 1000 XP, stretched over 24 hours each day
Combat points: All of them, with any dice roll, no modifier needed
Life: about 2 weeks, give or take (more "take" than "give")
Defence and Armor Class: almost impregnable
Mortal Enemy Card: Spread-leg. Used mostly by Changelings in combat or during health replenishing turns. You need always 2 cards, hence 2 legs to play (and spread).
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What's the language you have courage in? You might not approve of me writing in English, but I’m so past seeking (your) approval…
Everything is so straight forward with the colonizing language (English)! And my (not yet) spilled beans could use some “straight “! Oh, don’t frown like you need answers. Save your forehead lines for more concerning matters. Moreover, my healthy emotional diet "dictates" avoiding difficult questions (in case you have any so far). But this is not about health, food or how to keep questions at bay. Which I excel in, BTW.
What is it all this about, then? Definitely, not airports!
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Cheese. [Edited/Deleted] Cheesy songs with cheesy lyrics. My mix tape. Proudly deleted. Good riddance. I didn't hesitate when I selected all and hit "Delete". Not with a heart of stone, but with a bucket of disgust for a bucket of cheese.
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Florence. I've made up memories. Imagine pathways from the Roman era, Renaissance paintings and statues (with too many stone balls to pass unnoticed), Medieval buildings and me talking and walking next to the fictional you. That's been almost a year ago. Still doing it, even though the geo-location changes from time to time.
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Matter. Size matters. I'm a tiny big girl you nerver felt attracted to. Take it the wrong way./ Timing matters. I've missed you so many times that it became an unhealthy habit. I keep having these habits. /Cold hands matter. Mostly as emotional compounds. I loved it when you wrapped your fingers over my fist. I couldn't hit you and you knew it. That's why, for a moment, you didn't let go. / Silence matters. Way more than spoken words, colors, fragrances or broken dreams. I was closer to you in silence than in anything else. And you knew it./ Stepping aside matters. It took me some time and will power to do it. But, mission accomplished! To be graded by you: "Sit down! C for effort!".
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Reactiveness vs. Overthinking. Agree to disagree. One cannot be both at the same time. I'm either reactive or overthinking at a certain moment. I might though alternate them over time. That's probably the very definition of anxiety. And, if you want to play with examples, here you go: I've reacted to your lack of reaction, but went back home, (over)thought it, had a quick scolding talk with my reactiveness and we both agreed that I rather stay in a quiet corner with my thoughts than shoot butterfly feelings at you. Problem solved. Yet, the purpose of this unusual letter is to save the fleetingness of my reactive emotions from the stone monster of overthinking. Hence my very point, I don't overthink. At least not when it comes to you.
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Away. I can't wait to be gone and away. Each second of me being close to you has the sound of slicing flesh. My flesh. Sentenced to being chopped off alive (and keep being alive despite the ongoing chopping).
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Hands. I’ve always thought that, at the beginning, some long time ago, humans had two hearts: one in each palm. And everything that was around them, they used to touch with the hearts cupped in their hands. I have a thing for hands. Your hands.
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Insignificant Concessions. Surrounded by Easter, attacked by chores, washed off by celebratory food items, engaged in unsupported meaning, overwhelmed by prayer echo and suddenly licensed in "don't-give-a-fuck-ism". Hence, I surrendered to the urge of talking to Cezar, Ovidiu, my grandma and Paul Daian: party of one in the reverent memory of a few.
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Elegance = Daily performative act of defeated thinking. Elegance is a special muscle that not everybody has it, like Psoas Minor (that’s a real muscle). Who's born with it, they are clearly very lucky (don't give me the blue blood speech, though). Hence, they have the prospect of turning into a graceful person. Who doesn’t have it, too bad. Try to be something else, because elegance is a no-no for you. Yet, for those with an inquiring mind and a dash of sensibility, the tasting buds of elegance might sprout, grow and bloom in unexpected ways.
Tudor, stick your tongue out! I need to check on something!
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Idiot. I’m an idiot and you’ve never said it otherwise. But, hey, silver linings: you added another sapiosexual to your list. You are not a list person, I'm not an idiot, yet here we stand: the list monster and the halfwit.
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Sail away. Like a disturbed sailor before the ship anchors in the harbour; the fear comes to stay and it stays to terror (me) and it terrors me to sail away from the shore. Once more, here I stand, in front of you, with the fictional army of a Parisian airport right beside me, daring to be afraid in the mere attempt of a failed confession. Take it AND leave it, because I don't stand to chances. I don't stand to pretty much nothing.
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