romantic, not discussing it.

i wish i could talk to you as easily as i write to you.

i don’t know why its so difficult really. but despite you being so important, my words to you come out like mush. grey goo. unsatisfactory. ugly. then i have to listen to you while you tell me you’re “disappointed”, while i bite my lip, stare at the rearview mirror and remind myself to blink so my contacts don’t dry out.

sometimes, like today, i wish you could be the george bernard shaw to my ms. patrick campbell. we could communicate via letters, the beauty of snail mail, of licking stamps and sealing envelopes. we wouldnt have to wait more than a day, since we’re only separated by a few hours.

of course, we arent married to other people, and we have instant messaging and telephones, buses and cars. we can meet and talk to each other whenever the mood strikes us.

you have been known to call me just to hash out the week’s episode of the big bang theory. i have been known to call you because the pool has been closed for 2 days and i need to whine. we have been known to meet, whenever we have nothing pressing happening, or when we arent broke. depth? none. romance? even less. great strides in our relationship? it doesnt dignify a response.

honestly, perhaps it is how “instant” our communication is that is the problem. we dont think before we type. and while we are typing to each other, we are also downloading music, updating blogs (me), and scouring metal forums (you).

we make a hundred things more important than each other. we never talk about us and when we do, we usually lose our tempers to the point of exhaustion. and we’re typing or talking too fast to take back what we regret.

when i have written letters to you in the past, it is just me at my desk, scribbling to you, yes you, and listening to phoenix. i dont think of anything else but the words i am writing to you, and it helps me bridge the gap between us. the gap that is sometimes geographical, sometimes emotional. but when i return to you, i see my brightly colored envelopes stacked somewhere close, and i think  – finally. finally i have made you understand.

so maybe, just maybe, we could type less. maybe we could silence the constant beeping and ringing of our phones. maybe we could invest in envelopes and stamps. and perhaps, through paper and ink, we could grow. take  some chances, a leap. an anything that makes us more real than we already are.

yours sincerely,

yours.

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3 thoughts on “romantic, not discussing it.

  1. Touching, heartfelt words, Woman. I write that without flippancy. Woman.

    I read: “I am giving all of myself to you, or at least am ready, and yet where have you gone? Or, were you ever actually there? Anywhere?”

    It seems an oft-told tale, nowadays. Leitmotif of an age.

    Beautiful writing, and best of luck.

    1. You read it correctly. Actually, I could have just typed your interpretation and saved myself all the paragraphs. Ah well.

      It is an oft-told tale, yes. It makes it more poignant somehow. So many different who’s, so many different where’s – and failing the same way, for the same thing.

      Thank you. And best of luck to you (and your cast) too.

  2. Please don’t save the paragraphs, they are your song.

    “…and failing for the same way, for the same thing.” I like that. We had visitors over last weekend. A Mother and her four children. The father used to come too, but he’s in alcohol rehab. There it is again, just older and with more at stake. But to me, the seeds were there right from the start.

    I suppose at the heart of the O.C. is: what makes a man a man? And I’m not talking about packing on a bunch of muscles or driving around a big pickup. To me, it’s an internal, moral, psycho-spiritual thing, utterly neglected today, to virtually everyone’s peril.

    Anyway, blah blah blah, that’s my song, looking forward to more of your’s.

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