At the end of the night, it’s not the person you’re in love with (in my mind, this rarely exists.), it’s the idea of love. The mass that you fall asleep to and wake up to in the next. It’s the warmth, the presence, the touch. Tell me that I am not a hopeless case, that regardless of how bitter you are, how content you may feel, that we are all going through this. So that this occasional feeling of loneliness is met with a shared nod in the head, an agreement that, ’ hey i feel the same way too.’ Then this hunt, this constant tug, is only temporary. We can be each others soulmate, we can be like the movies, but without the fancy editing.
While searching for an apartment in Oakland a couple of weeks ago ( a tiresome search which included viewing 30 places in 4 days), we stumbled upon an apartment that was…how can i say this…pretty shitty. beaten up carpet, old fixtures, dusty - you get the idea. As the realtor asked us if the place met our needs, we politely said ‘no’ and she escorted us out. Before i walked out though, she asked me about my brooch (I’m a brooch and button whore) which was a really large red button in the shape of a heart. i explained about my obsession, and to my surprise we began a discussion about Patrick Kelly - a famous designer whom I’d never heard of before.
Worth is relative, we sometimes choose to see ourselves in better lighting than we really are -- painted in the richest colors, in that every decision we make, every hue or tone that changes, with whatever level of rational or instinct, we can still stand firm on our choices because in the end, we're all constructed -- we are pieces of art.
I’ve been sleeping on the same bed as my roomate Anna — family’s in town and our apartment’s filled. I woke up in the middle of the night to find myself accidentally spooning her and allegedly, I had a sex dream. To add on to injury, next day she claims I had yelled out “oh fuck yeah!" — okay, I don’t remember that part!