Written By L. M.
I am going to try and put this as simply as I can. To be honest, I wouldn’t be able to put it in a more complex way. I am just a man. We are born with a sort of metaphorical manual. One translated in all languages and dialects globally and with no more than three or four instructions to follow. Even when my words seem to resemble literary eloquence or artistic interpretation, my nature brings me back my setting’s simplicity.
We cannot escape ourselves. No matter how elaborate the plan. We do not confront them enough to do it. So, up until now, all the paths I have walked down, the choices I have made, the losses I could not replace, the failures that made me touch the ground, in everything that I have ever come across, I have never found myself in a similar situation. I am confident I haven’t because everything before you fitted the glove perfectly. You are nothing like what I have seen before. We don’t fit. My manual does not include you.
That is how I know you are the one. We are both pricking our fingers on spinning wheels but we never complain with the bleeding. It is always about the ride. The fresh air breeze on our faces driving this tandem without hands in an unmarked path. I guess this is where all pink, vanilla, romanticized female notions based on. I was always laughing at them mostly due to the fact that I was afraid to admit that I could not comprehend them. They are far from my simple structured nature but closer to the truth. That truth that lies among whispers when drums are echoing. That truth that you hurry to discover but she has already found you.
You may laugh at me too. But the the first time I really saw me was the time that I managed to see how she sees me. Through the eyes of a girl I found me. Through the eyes of a girl I took off my mask. We all have one. Let’s not pretend otherwise. Those eyes took off the mask that I feared I could not live without but I knew I could not live within. This strange affliction that was washing over me with that visor on had to stop somehow. And it’s been raining idylic novel images ever since. The ones that cause long sighs in puberty girls’ chests with the wish to find the novel’s noble man on their way someday.
I know I am far from that notion but I know that this is what I am aiming for every time she gives me the first glance of the day. I know I will never reach it. She knows it too. Women have a tendency of feeling things. This premonition is not an attempt to praise themselves or to give an excuse for their complexity. It is a true fact. It was probably featured in them when they disvowed the sweet nostalgia of their adolescent dreams. Nostalgia is denial. Denial of the painful present. And when you give a girl that she makes it into art. Her premonition proves out to be correct when you fit to be the canvas.
So, I come in all shapes and sizes. I am sketched, painted and hung on the wall portraying artistic forms of expressionism that put me my coat on before I leave the house. I have said too much I know. I tend to be a chaterbox only to emblazon my insecurity when she is not around. Because when she does I go gentle into the nights and allow the dying light to embrace my beating heart. Women recognise insecurities because they are loud. Louder than the thoughts in their heads. Their thoughts always scream. That is why it is easy to recognise the right woman from a distance. She makes you to want to be heard like a bird released. Singing your way out of mere empty talking.
No matter how parallel our lines, we will always find a way to meet each other. Both our parties recognize the instructions of our engagement to cut across every road to find each other. The instructions are that there are no instructions. There are no rules. There are no other options. There are no differences. There are no complexities. There are no boundaries or hindrances. There is nothing else. There is no you and me. There is only us.
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