My moods are so color-changing around Christopher. He presses against me and I can feel myself, transparent, revealing sadness, happiness, euphoria in the florescence that leaves its chest and stomach and hand shaped shadows. He can put on his deeper voice, his authoritative demeanor, his strong deep loving eyes, and I can be more in love with him than ever, curling into the shape of him as easily as slipping into a warm bath. Other times he whines, a torrent of shallow drama and feminine games, wanting to be petted and spoiled, and I feel torn. I dream mostly of the men I’ve been with and the idea of all of the sums of their good parts; a boho Odysseus with mischievous eyes and patient hands that shatters my insecurities. The dreams of real men always leave me confused and jittery- like there is a novel-worthy adventure of epic romantic proportions waiting for me if I explored the world with both hands. Other times Chris’s love is everything and the walls that keep my expanding craziness at bay. His love is dark, hardwood, constricting and solid like the hug you need when your life is crumbling away. His common sense is two hands wrapping around my throat, but his unyielding ambition is the phoenix that continues to rise from the ashes, allowing me to sing. The greys and the confusion I see in life; the space between rainbows doesn’t exist for him- he sees only cloud cover. Occasionally I can break through his melancholy with a well placed weekend away, or a perfectly executed Sunday drive when we aren’t broke enough to let it spoil the day.
Lately I’ve been a torrential rain pounding insanely on the pavement. My head aches with the effort, but I can’t seem to stop. Losing a dream is harder than everyone tells you it will be. It is like a death, and an abortion, and a breakup all rolled into one. You feel empty, rejected, and lonely but time seems to tick on, so you’re left scrambling to stitch yourself back together as your wound keeps bleeding. People help. Love helps. But not much. My own brain sabotages my attempts at happiness- I find myself angry and bitter with no cause in sight.
Maybe when the light passes through the clouds I’ll catch a ray and find myself recovering from this seasonal depression of lost ambition. But until then I’ll continue to fling myself against rooftops and sidewalks, knowing that once the rain stops, the smell of clean earth will lift my spirits.
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