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Dustyn -> RE: What's the point of...? (5/17/2006 3:38:10 PM)
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For the better part of 20 years, I've had this ideal concept of a partner in my mind, and from time to time, I feel like I've found her, only to realize that I want the dream to become reality so badly that the phrase "Any port in a storm," comes to mind. I'll post the story of it at the end of this post, just in case anyone feels like reading it. Always get annoyed with myself when I let myself try to force someone that could never be this ideal into being it.
quote:
I don't know who she is, but it is as if she holds my very soul in her fingertips, watching it as if it were a sphere of perfect crystal. I tremble at the thought of holding her, touching her. I know her laugh like I know the scent of water, pure, clean and refreshing. The only place that I have ever known her is in my dreams, but there is nothing dreamlike about the time that I spend with her when she graces my sleep. There isn't that detached feeling to the dream, but more like it is a memory. Not even memory, but like I am actually with her. Actually feeling her lips on mine. My skin still burns with the desire I have for her. My lungs ache for air at the sure grip of love that constricts my chest and heart with her every sound. I first met her 6 years ago in a dream, dressed in a short, plaid skirt, looking for all the world like she was a pin up girl for the punk scene. Piercings everywhere, hair died those garish colors they tend to prefer. But through that facade of grit and grime, the delicate simplicity of her shone through like the sun shines through a thin piece of silk. It was over a year before she graced my bed with her body, before she gave me everything that she was. I spent nearly an entire day asleep with her in my arms, holding her close and simply talking about the world. Talk about what we wanted, how we felt. I'm not ashamed to admit that the first true heartbeat of love I have ever felt came from her, but in her eyes, I lose that hesitancy that plagues me. There is pure surety in my hands and in my mind. She's slim without being thin. She's sleek, like me, steel muscles under a suit of taut flesh. Her hair has never been long, but at least she stopped hiding that rich auburn with that disgusting bright red and purple mixture she used to wear. The piercings are gone, as is the punk motif that she used to hide within. The silky length of her hair isn't even to her shoulders, but at least she is growing it, and from her own lips, she said she's growing it to see what she looks like in my eyes. I know her as one knows the world exists. Fire burns, water flows, earth holds and air blows. That is the utter certainty that defines her in my mind, and in my soul. No one captivates me the way that she does, even in this most recent time spent with her, when she slipped into my house in just a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I know her body like I know my house in the dark. There is not an inch of her flesh that I haven't memorized a million times, only to forget and memorize yet again. Small, firm, round breasts that fit perfectly inside of my hands. Lips as soft as summer rain, but rain has never been as soothing nor as sweet. Every kiss is lightning through my nerves. Every moan is pure ecstasy. She is my ultimate indulgance; my ultimate addiction. She is my ideal and my curse, because I don't know if I will ever find her, or if she truly is only a figment of my dreams. The instant I hear her, not just her voice, but just the sounds she makes as she walks, none of that matters. In her arms, I am neither man nor beast, but simply me, both at the same time, neither at the same time. With every choice I make in my life, I know I draw closer and closer to possessing her; to being possessed by her. For her, the world is not enough, nor is the universe. I wouldn't capture the stars for her, but instead would make entirely new ones simply to see her smile in glee. I have dozens of sketches of her scattered through my art books, even if they do fail to capture even a hint of her beauty. My words will never do justice to what she is, or to who she is. She is my respite from love, hate, and everything else. Together, we exist solely for the other. In her dark brown eyes, I am able to stand tall, and stand with pride of who I am, despite my past. She knows my every secret, and not only understands them, but understands why they exist, or are remembered. She has seen the demons, the angels, the beauty and the vileness that wrestles inside of me; that wars inside of me. No condemnation in her eyes, nor in her heart, which I feel beating as surely as I feel my own heart beating in my chest. In her eyes, I am my own ideal person. Now if I simply knew her name. I know it when I am with her, but when she is not in my arms, I can no more remember it than I can remember what it is like to fly on feathered wings. That is the sole regret I hold for her. One day, I will lock my eyes on her outside of the dreams, and I will know her name with the same certainty that I know mine. That is the sole consolation I have with my failure to know her name when I am awake. Another night spent with her, and the enchantment around my very being is drawn that much tighter, not that I care. Her name dances on the tip of my tongue, but for the life of me, there is no chance that I can utter it. The damnable thing is that when I am with her, it is never an issue, but when I am apart from her, it consumes me. Is this my punishment for my life, or a vision of what could be, if I could only find her in the waking world, instead of the dreamscape? The concept of Hell cannot frighten me more than the thought of never holding her in my arms and watching the sunlight dance in her hair, instead of the moonlight in her eyes. In truth, I won’t deny that the beauty of watching the stars grow older with her is the most peaceful sensation I know. But the thought of her being just a creation of my mind, a fantasy in which I torment myself, scares me more than I would ever admit to any living person. There is a simple, sweet beauty to her that I simply cannot find in anyone else that I know in this life, and I know several hundreds of people, thanks to my time on the Internet. She is as direct as I am in everything that she says, which I cherish. I’ll be the first person to admit that I do not catch subtle twists in conversation readily, or to be blunt, I’m just dense at times. I consider it a small foible in my character, but I know that it infuriates people on a regular basis when I don’t catch the hint, so to speak. I can smell the strawberries from her shampoo when I wake, and still taste her breath on my lips. Her touch is like pouring battery acid across bare flesh, but instead of pain, it is rapture to hold her in my arms. She is like nothing I have ever known, man or beast. Sweet, honest, caring, practical. The list of words to describe her is truly endless I think. But I cannot tell if she is real, or if she is a dream walker like I am. When ‘A’ would cross over to me, I knew it was her like I know that water is wet. This woman is truly my ideal, if not perhaps my soul mate. The contentment that I feel after a night spent with her, regardless of how the time is spent, is something that I would kill to possess, and have less than a heartbeat of regret at the effort. “There she is. Your Venus.” A single line from a movie that embodies her, to some degree. I am petrified that this woman, for she is definitely no girl, doesn’t exist beyond the insides of my eyelids. I am afraid that I am in love with a dream, because it would mean that my sanity is slipping yet again into that dark void. So many pieces of other people can be found in her that she could very well be a dream, although I would barter my soul and breath away to give her life if she is simply a dream. No one that innocent and beautiful should ever be forced to be trapped in my mind. No deed, or lifetime of deeds, could warrant such a dreadful punishment as to be caged away with the things that I lock inside of me. She has Rhonda’s strength of character. Kris’ honest love. Heather’s playfulness. Andria’s passion. And my heart. I dare not speak of her with anyone that is close to me, simply because I will be thought of as insane again, and that is something I despise ever going through again. But still she haunts me, and captivates me at the same time. If only I could remember her name.
I do apologize for the names inside of it, since they will mean nothing to most anyone that reads this.
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