Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not a Drop to Drink

I think I realize now why I always have such pie-in-the-sky ideas. It's not because I am a whimsical daydreamer, like I would have everyone believe, myself included. It's because when one sets practical-sounding, yet unrealistic goals for oneself, you get to seem like a normal, functioning member of society, but you never actually have to work towards the dream, because it's always just out of reach. You never can really get disappointed or hurt, because you never even make an attempt. But then, by some off-chance, you actually do come upon (usually by happenstance, not effort) a high-priority goal and attain it, what's left over? Where do you go from there? It's never as exhilarating as you think it's going to be. It's a rather empty feeling, honestly. There are no parades, no ticker-tape, no rounds of applause. It passes by much like everything; with little fanfare. The thrill of the hunt is over, and there's just a bloody, picked-over carcass lying in rot in the grass to show for it.

I've been searching all summer for "that feeling." That "realness" I so often speak of, but can never quite touch. I thought I finally found it. That's bullshit. I am being disingenuous. I am using cognitive dissonance to lessen the blow, after the fact. I did find it, at the time it felt so incredibly real, so powerful, so dynamic, though it was but for a fleeting moment. But in that moment, I was happy, truly happy, for the first time really since this whole process began, maybe in years. It was like I could breathe again. No more was my breath caught in my throat, no more shallow, tensed respirations. Lying there in that bed, the walls awash with flickering ochre, the scent of lilac and whatever wonderfully addicting additive they put in men's deodorant that makes me weak, pressed on top of him, never wanting to move. I bury my face in that little alcove between his shoulder and neck. I inhale deeply, drinking it all in, letting myself acknowledge the contentment for just a second. I don't want to forget this moment. It's the best I've had in recent memory. It even tops what I thought to be unbeatable, with that dark, almond-eyed devil who captivated me so. It's so much more honest and I am actually present, not off in my head somewhere. I am truly experiencing it. I'm not playing a part, like usual. I am totally myself, no pandering, no shtick, no deflection. I actually let go. For the first time, in a long time, I feel alive.

I haven't let go with someone like that in over 6 years, and it was no where near this intensity level. Now that I think about it, I'm not sure if I've ever let go this fully, not since I was 16 and had nothing to lose. There were no jaded distortions or gut-wrenching memories then. I had to look forward in those days. Being that honest with your emotions has its price. You expose your jugular vein, complete vulnerability. But that's the gamble with matters of love. You have to bet high to win big. God, I find myself paused from writing for a moment, absently rubbing my arm. Smoothing down from the elbow to the wrist and back again. I only do that in times of intense mental anguish. That's the ol' cuttin' arm; a holdover from a time not so long ago. Bright crimson on slashed porcelain. What is this purgatory I always seem to be banished to? I could handle it (just barely at times) with the others, because I never fully relinquished control. I had my little eye-for-an-eye ways of coping with the positions I let men put me in. But in this particular situation, no of those old tricks will work. My powers are useless against the real thing.