“…texts from nature, from the universe, and they remind us that symmetry co-exists with chaos, that ingenuities outflank fatalities, that what is desired is more reassuring than what is promised.”
I read this expert in the book by John Berger. I wondered about things we are promised, and things we desire for all our lives. Love, acceptance, success, intrigue, creative liberty, expression, fantasy, dreams, experience, hope. These aren’t promised to us, but their pleasures are infinitely more meaningful—even though they all rake in chaos along with them.
During a whirlwind of my own chaos, life somehow planted a man into my life who I’ve come to fall in love with. I’ve never been in love, sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it correctly. If I’m saying it enough times, or perhaps too many times that now the word had become utterly meaningless.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Love you. Love ya!
Babe. Baby. My love. Love. I love you. I love you.
I don’t think he believes I love him less when I don’t say it every day, I don’t believe he loves me more when he says it before bed every night either. There’s a lot of silence in desires we do not express, hoping out of the sudden blue they would be heard and translated acutely. Reciprocated and appreciated. There’s more love in the silence than in the physicality of expressing it.
He plays rugby on Saturdays and works out on days he finds an opening in his schedule. Stress causes his muscles to strain, he feel uneasy in bed and he snores loudly. I usually massage his back and neck, then his thighs and calves. He’d groan as the pain would leave his body, but massaging him makes my fingers go sore. I’d wake up the next morning with pain shooting down my palm and wrists because I was squeezing every knot in his body the night before. My thumb and pointer finger get so sore I can’t write, and my wrist wouldn’t be able to twist comfortably. Last week I massaged his arms and shoulders, the weight of carrying my laptop hurt so much the next night I had to ice it after he left. But then he’d jump out of bed and say, “that feels great, my back feels so much better. Thank you my love” and I’d just forget it. The days leading up to his arrival are the busiest of all, though they appear fabulously effortless. And I ask myself, why am I doing it in silence? When did I become the woman who cooks while her lover is watching baseball? When he’d watch the baseball game in the morning, or talk to his mother on the phone at night and I’d make us food, the heat from the oven would penetrate through the glass and burn onto my knees. The water, oil and grease would get steamed onto my face and my cheeks would turn red. The summer heat, no air conditioner, and humidity make my body sweaty and groggy. The heat makes me dizzy very often. I don’t believe I’ve cooked us food without burning my fingertips or scraping a nail or two. It comes out delicious every time, but there’s a lot of love (combined with sweat and swallowed tears) that go into it.
I realized I loved him when I went to wash my hands one morning while he was still in bed. Instinctively after I finished, I turned the tap to the left because he only washes his hands with really warm water. I did it without thinking, and as I dried my hands on the towel, I looked at myself in the mirror and realized “wow, I actually know this man. And I think I might love him”. I didn’t say it to him, but it was that moment that counted.
“we tend to associate intimacy with closeness and closeness with a certain sum of shared experiences”
I guess we do, but closeness matters to me. I cannot name a person I’d want to spend an entire week with, living in close proximity and sharing every minute together for that whole week. I can’t seem to mind it with him. Sometimes I’d get so emotional when he’s leaving, I think to myself “when did I become such a pile of softness? Who am I?”. It’s becoming this cyclical thing of wondering who I am and figuring it out around him. Once he’s gone, I’d read and get back to what my life is like in his absence. The thought of him coming back would make the shifts feel less heavy. It’s so sickening being in love. I feel utterly helpless against it, yet I cannot pull away. I still think he’d break my heart, I still occasionally question whether he loves me the same. I wonder if I feel things too intensely and if maybe it would be better to water them down, to dim the lights of my own love, but anything that needs you to contain your true feelings isn’t a thing worth pursuing.
I’ve really been wondering about my direction with writing and everything else. I cannot write as effortlessly on Substack as I used to, I haven’t been practicing as much. My course burnt me to a crisp after I submitted the last project a month ago, its been quite hard to find any opening for creative work. Across the world now, there is a woman with twice the talent and thrice the ambition as mine, but with none of the opportunities and freedom. A list of thirty things I’ve wanted to do, but I’ve only crossed out twenty. There are dreamers and there are doers, but I’m teetering the line of in-between. I wonder if I’d get more done had I been able to prioritize what my mind tells me rather than my heart. I only think of writing when I’m busy serving drinks to a table. I only want to get back to drawing when I have no access to my supplies. I get nostalgic for my books when I leave them behind. Do I only desire what I love when its far away? Would I love my man the same if he was here always? I think I might.
That final question got me 😭
🔥 this piece made me feeling alive again. Thank you