a little rusty, but i must

November 7, 2015 § Leave a comment

Last night didn’t have the end the way it did. But even as I was awfully, impolitely quiet in the ride back to Berkeley with my friends I love, I thought of how much it hurt to not feel intimate with those you want to find out. That’s what I want, to find you out, to be found out by you. And that you has yet to materialize. It took me a short moment to distinguish the unnamed desires from the ones I think I know. But the love that’s to be fanned into flame is not in the room. He was not in the room. Nonetheless I would have liked to seek out depth of a person, two people, three friends.

You shouldn’t say stuff like that anymore, I thought about telling him. You know he’ll say whatever is true at the moment though, which is why I love him.

I know you, he says.

And he does. It’s nice to hear another’s words & voice carry your heart out loud. Slightly foreign, but mostly familiar.

You’re not fully satiated, I caught those words, I bet he learned them from me.

I’m hypersensitive, he says again.

You mean intuitive? I asked.

No, sensitive around you. Not everyone, just you.

I want that knowing. because I realized that I didn’t have that with my friends I loved. There really are very few people whom I’ve allowed to know me, to stick around long enough to find me out, to be patient and persistent through the dry periods when I don’t know how to be vulnerable, to poke and probe me. I must not believe the lie that I am a difficult child, that I’m hard to love. This is not true, but I also know myself to not give away easily. There’s just so much in me, too much, for words. One hour? Two hours? Maybe a couple weeks? How long will it take? Sometimes they don’t come for months at end. Half a year is usually how long I process one idea. And they build on top of each other. I’m still fleshing out what I’ve envisioned for community in Oakland, April 2010. Longevity matters in a friendship with me.

So, a room full of friends: I love them; I really want to pursue many of them. I want to find out, and in the process I’m hoping that I’ll be found out too, that those I seek out will not only open up to me but expect me to do the same. As I listen patiently and ask good questions–because I’m a pro at this–I’m hoping they will know how to unlock the maze, because I need them to open me up, I don’t know how. When I will myself to say things inside me, I have not the words. They always feel forced; I get flustered and say the third closest thing to what’s actually on my mind. There’s no way of knowing what is actually in me unless you ask. I need others to open me up. That’s the knowing I want. That’s the question I need asked. That’s the depth I find myself staring into, longingly, every time.

Come find me, I thought, wherever you are. Whatever you’re doing right now, come find me. There’s a chasm I have never looked into closely enough, not necessarily for the fear of finding out what’s there, but because it requires more than one person looking. There are things inside me I’ve not experienced or named. I have an inkling of who that woman may be, what she’s like, where she treads, how she prays. You with the right words will unlock her, I know it.


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