It’s been quite awhile since I’ve had all this time to myself. It’s honestly a little disorienting.
All my energy for the last 4 or so months had been heavily concentrated on you and my schoolwork.
But mostly you.
To be honest, my grades are slipping because of you. It’s a little scary to admit that. To say it out in the open with so much certainty that, yes, you are causing my closeness to failure.
But I haven’t failed, so it’s fine.
It’s also a little frightening that I’m okay with that.
When I’m with you, I feel like my life’s finally started. All this studying, and waiting and always planning for the future suddenly felt so ridiculous when it was the only scheme I knew until you. Study to get good grades, to get a good job, to get a good house, to have a happy family, to grow old securely – so ridiculous. Safe, yes. Secure, yes. Happy? I don’t know.
I honestly don’t think I was ever happy until I had you.
We plan and plan for the future, we work for the future. We live for the future. But where do all the late nights dancing go? We spend a short while with tired eyes and smiling faces, only for those moments and memories to disperse into the air – into the work we do robotically for the future. Moments spent in the hot summer light, hands incredibly moist but clasped together, in love – they become set aside for the things that haven’t happened yet. Why?
I realize it’s a question of balance. I’ve been taught by most everything that this sort of mindset is reckless. La vie boheme is one spent in a tiny almost-apartment by the tracks, barely scraping rent, barely scraping dinner for tomorrow night. Love is a luxury. Pure, magical, wonderful love is such a luxury. It’s for people who don’t have to care, and in order not to, you need wealth, you need power. At the very least, you need fame. You can’t just have love. Love doesn’t provide.
I put everything into you because I’m scared I’ll never have you again.
Another scary thought – one I’ve also never quite told you, or anyone.
I’m afraid you won’t come back, that is, in any shape or form.
You are everything. Everything is you. You are love, all love. The kind I didn’t think I’d ever find in anyone or in anything. You are the kind of love that my self-esteem only allowed me to pine for through television and literature. Because I always thought one day I’d have to settle. That maybe it’s fine that I didn’t fall in love, because I’ll be secure, and moderately content, if not happy. I’ll feign love for maybe a few years, start a family, work a 9-5 job that paid just enough, and then really utterly fall out of love – but hey, at least I had a decent car and a home.
I’m afraid you, or what I have with you will never happen again.
And sometimes, in the best, most genuine moments that I am in love with you, I am certain that it won’t.
When I’m with you, I feel like my life’s already in that place after school and finding a job. I feel like it’s in that secure happy place where we’ve made a home, and life’s already worked out. I feel like life is mine and ours and it’s perfect. So I don’t work, I bask in this delusion because until now my heart races when you ring my doorbell at 6 in the morning.
I don’t tell you, but sometimes I feel like we’re already married and just happy.
That will probably scare you away.
Probably everything I’ve just said will scare you away.