Thursday, December 3, 2009

i'm terrified


I need to write. I need to write, paint, cry it all away. I've found love, as ridiculous and impossible as that is. For me, anyway. I am a cynical person. In everything and everyone, I find fault.

I believe in love, I really believe in love. But for so long I've been too cynical, too logical, too damn scared to feel it.

I don't know where to begin. It all started with a drunken kiss. But in that person I've found everything I ever dreamed of. He has an overwhelming passion for life. An artist. A dreamer. When he looks at me, it's like he's staring at the stars. He see's a beauty I can't even hope to ever see. He can look into my soul, without me saying a thing he can perfectly articulate everything I've tried so hard to hide from everyone. He can't not touch me, stroke my hand, my back.

Anyone else, I would be in heaven. I would jump in and never look back. Even typing this, I feel my happiness being crushed. He's my best friend's dad. 30 years my senior. I don't know why anyone would want to hear this, to hear about this disgusting, sordid little situation. But it's not disgusting, it's not sordid.

I've written pages upon pages of letters and confessions. Paintings, drawings, I'm trying to put it down somewhere so that I can look at it and somehow rationalize it. I've written this email a dozen times. Sometimes I say that it's just too impossible, too hard. Other's I can't imagine having to let him go.

I'm terrified. What if my life, my family and friends, all crumbles beneath me? But what if in years to come, I look back full of regret. This man truly loved me. He wanted to give me the world. And I threw it all away because of fear.

The truth is, I have no idea. But in doing this, I'm keeping him in a state of limbo that is killing him. I tried to end it, I tried to be strong. But there wasn't a single part of me that was sincere. He saw that. He didn't let go easily and now we're back where we started.

Nothing could be more beautiful and true, or more petrifying.

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