Coming to Terms

Each moment I experience is like a poem in it's first stage. And, if I remember to breathe, I have faith that this too will pass.

Continue breathing. That's the trick.

Alice Walker once wrote that each poem she wrote is gratitude that she had not committed suicide the night before. I think of this sentence continuously. I cannot forget. The second that I forget, I step into the realm of the inevitable.

I'm coming to terms:

When a white person has no respect for me - he's not racist, he just dislikes me.

When a man disrespects me - he's not sexist, he just has no respect for me.

I'm beginning to wonder if likeabilty and conformity are the lost virtues...

Continue breathing. That's the trick.

I also realized that I love who I am. I like my quiet nature. And most times I do prefer books to, everything. (Everything... except intimacy.) I prefer solitude. To a certain extent, I prefer anonymity.

I wish, I could be who I am without infringing upon other people.

And, I think intimacy is the most important aspect of our human lives. The capacity to truly love and be loved. The capacity to trust and be trusted. Without love and trust, what in the world could possibly be worth it?

Through my own insecurities and fallibility, I am destined to singledom. But there was always a level of ineffable intimacy. These friendships sheltered me, guided me through loss and suicide, heartbreak and failures. And now that the sincerity is gone and only the stage exists, I am left to fend my own insecurities and fatalities by myself.

Even loners exult intimacy, perhaps moreso than the socialites who take the quality of human interactions for granted.

Of all my failures and mishaps, my relationships were the only thing that I had handled correctly. And now I must come to terms, with the loss of the only thing that made life bearable.

One day, I will walk into the room, and someone will smile that I have arrived. And not the forced grimace of the rehearsed smile. But the impromptu expression of genuine love.

I miss intimacy. I miss it. I miss four hour conversations, I miss snail mail. I miss meeting friends for the club. Or, breakfast afterwards. I miss sharing an experience with only one other person. And knowing that moment was ours alone. It's been a long time coming.

I guess, I never expected to have mass appeal. I've never been popular. I only expected to be well-respected. And this week, quite explicitly, I realized that too was a pipe dream.

So I'm coming to terms with reality.

The reality is: my days of intimacy are gone. And it takes years to build trust, honor, support. It may be years before I experience intimacy again.

The reality is: who I am does infringe upon other people. So, I will either be myself, and face the consequences being unwelcome. Or, I will become someone else, and face the consequences of being phony - a traitor unto myself.

The reality is: the people I love, revere and respect... do not feel the same for me. The reality is the unrequited nature of hope. I'm hoping for people, relationships, opportunities and things which are not hoping for me. In fact, some hope against it.

The reality is: "more writing, less whinning," is easier said than done.