On the Mismatch
by HelluvaGirl
I feel it now.
I’ve been feeling it the past months; yet only now I know the words for it.
When a stranger at a spa gave me a massage, I wanted to gasp I love you. When daughter caressed my head, I was so weakened by the tenderness, that I knew: I need it already, that spring in the jungle, that nature thing, that breakfast in bed I didn’t make.
I guess now I understand what my girlfriend meant right before my heavy step towards loneliness: the singletons’ market is horrible over thirties; you don’t wanna be here.
I guess loneliness is a friend only when you want it.
I have someone to caress me with their words. It’s their hands and their life that I want to try on.
And the beautiful part once again is that I’m quite patiently observing the mismatch between my wishes and my days.
You see, love does not require a certain kind of object, if love is there at all. Love is not a rockstar with a rider: if it is there, it makes sense out of everything, regardless of the form, purpose and interrelations.
Gotta practice.