I walk along the rows of my familiar Friday book store with a serious and determined air, looking for the answer to that which has been robbing me of my usually thought-out, witty words: what am I looking for?
Automatically, I unleash my supposedly soothing thoughts - those meant to keep me from panicking and dropping my mask of poise, elegance, and control.
Why am I looking? Because I feel alone - not lonely, because that's temporary. What I feel is utterly alone in the sense of never being able to be exactly and entirely myself with anyone at all. I'm not saying I'm a liar; I'm saying I'm only parts of myself at different times and with different people. And I'm not alone in the friendship sense either; however, I'm scared to verbalize what I am, in fact, alone in. Because it sounds clichè, because it sounds silly, because it sounds old fashioned, because it sounds lame - take your pick. And it scares me as much as it scares the few friends I'm able to confide in. Aren't I supposed to not care about... love? Aren't I supposed to be out at night, continuously in search of mouths and necks and bodies - nothing else? I am and I do. Did. Do? Sadly, it oscilates. But it's there and that's what matters - that and the feeling of emptiness it brings. I feel like a cannibal, depraved of all senses of self and morality. But I (and everyone else) tell myself: that's what nights are for. For letting it out, for feeling like that, for behaving like I'm supposed to, for not holding back. But then day follows and there's not much else to feel, since there's nothing to feel at all.
I guess that explains the "how am I looking for" part too. And since it's not working, or at least hasn't worked so far, I might go vegeterian in the sense that I won't settle for anything below my so-called "absurd" expectations. Which brings me closer to that which gives me the creeps, which makes me panic, which makes me absolutely vulnerable.
But not yet there. I remind myself to go easy, slowly, patiently... Basically, everything my thirsty self lacks.
So comes the next question: what am I not looking for? Easy, thanks to the past. Not looking for clingy, not looking for curious, not looking for shallow, not looking for someone with all the wrong reasons (or someone with all the wrong consequences either), not looking for money, not looking for a body with an empty mind (or vice-versa, forgive me), not looking for experience, not looking for cheap, not looking for someone who wants to share me, not looking to be someone's rebound, not looking for a candle that burns both ways (but of course I'll make an exception if my big "if" becomes fact), and not looking to be a toy. Oh, and especially not looking to be someone's summer postcard from one in several places of the world to later be shoved away in a shoebox like a distant memory of a long-ago trip. Because that made me believe, for a moment, that I'd never fall in love again.
Okay, deep breath now, as I pick up an elaborately-packed poetry-prose book by a man I've never heard of. Bless you, D.T., for making me believe in the existence of your race. Yes, you did not answer my question at all. You only triggered new ones. But you also gave me clues about what I do want, with that uncanningly (and shamelessly) written phrase of yours. I do want to be the "right ear to lyrically dirty phrases". I do want to give my soul up for words "written in passion-red lipstick". I want to be deliberately stupid, to be "crowned with a sonet", to be "an old poet's muse". I want to believe his words without having to run a background check, I want to trust and be trusted, incinerate and burn, mark and be marked.
Of course, as my best friend so appropriately put it today (in his sad, struggling words), the more I read the pickier I get. Because I do look around to only find myself face to face with betrayal, selfishness, voids, deterioration, and rotten, rotten people. Yet I'm still hopeless in the sense of never losing hope - I know what I want now, despite how hard I try to ignore it. And I'll try not to give into the night, I say as I'm slipping into the shimmery short black dress and heels, and I won't settle for less.
It might not be passion-red, it occurs to me as I carefully paint my lips tonight. But it's red alright.
And the mask is back on.
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