I spent months talking to this person I thought was Tom. Months of my life trying to figure out who he was not just through conversation, but looking at his social media. Learning the real him as much as the fake. I thought they were one in the same.
The things my mind can't move past. His love for books, and art, and music. His sense of humor, not just what people assume is it, but the surreal intelligent humor he uses on a daily basis. The things while I was trying to know him I assume most people wouldn't notice. Like when he posted himself reciting as many Canadian prime ministers as he could. It was his intelligence there that was incredibly sexy. Not just the random facts he could say from the back of his head, but the fact he knew them in the first place.
Not just his love for music, but vinyl. The only real way music should be heard. I don't know if it is a generational thing, but a real music lovers heart. The smell of a record you just pull out of a sleeve. I see him still making an everyday name for himself. And I know that behind that facade of what everyone wants from him, that there is this real life, human, intelligent, actual being. I like that his eyes don't open to the same size all the time. Likely a look developed after looking at people and thinking what the fuck so much. My eyes do the same thing. I like them even more in his glasses. I've seen him in a thousand black t shirts, and prefer him in purple. And his bowed legs. I love the fact that even with age this man still enjoys wearing checkered vans. In the same way I do. Something I refuse to ever grow out of.
I can't help but wonder if the circumstances were different if we could of ever been friends. I'm not a fan. Before the last couple of months I hadn't thought about his since I was a teenager watching his stunts on MTV. I don't much believe in celebrity crushes. I don't follow bands, or actors,or actresses. I don't really even watch TV. Rarely movies. I much more prefer creating, living my life rather than watching others live theirs out. So these thoughts I carry now perplex me. I don't have crazy people thoughts like following him on tour, or smelling his underwear.
But I do wonder what it's like to look him in his eyes, and listen to him talk about something he feels passionately about besides show biz. To have an actual conversation about something that isn't rehearsed. I think about this life I thought about for months. Rubbing his feet after a long day. And making him laugh, not waiting for him to make me to. I thought so long about pillow fights, and pacing back and forth in front of his studio doors until he could give me his undivided attention.
I thought about him in a raw human sense of being. I actually thought about him. Learning his likes and dislikes. And kissing his jaw line. And listening to him snore after a long day. Holding his hand. And honestly I feel bad now that I think about these things. Knowing they are not plausible. Knowing that I really am the one torturing my own mind at this point because it was always just a dream. Knowing that in the real world people who live lives like his will never see a day where they see someone like me. I've never dreamed of being rich and famous. It's a little grotesque for me. But imaging a life with this person I thought I was talking to for months came to a screeching halt. And I liked imaging the smell of books together. Rainy day cuddling. Making his coffee. Showering together. Talking with the bathroom door open.
I hadn't thought of those things with another person in so long. Even living with Benga, it wasn't me imaging those kinds of things. I was just reacting, just living day to day without hope.
There were no mutual ideals we shared. But studying this man for months knowing we enjoy and embody so many of the same things. Knowing he could be a good person. And we had so much in common. I'm left wondering if I'll ever dare to dream a dream like this again. And just as I told him, it didn't hurt because it wasn't him, it hurt because I opened myself up. And at first that was true. But now, now it's more than that. Now its the disappointment from bearing the idea that there might not be someone in the world whose brain is like mine. It's the idea of settling for less than that kind of sexy intelligence. It's giving up the idea of reading while playing footsie with someone. And the thought that maybe I won't find someone whose eyes do the same things as mine. Something maybe only the heavens could of aligned.
It's an unnerving fear that I won't end up with someone I could share so much with, that there would never be a dull day of our lives. It's a question the Universe of possibilities and still being forsaken. He's adventurous and gentle at the same time. And in all my life, I haven't met other humans like that.
It's a genuine disappointment that he was incredible to me. It's mourning a person that is still alive and never knew you existed. That's a different kind of heartbreak for a person like me. A person who continuously mourns dreams.
No comments:
Post a Comment