Five Hundred, Twenty Five Thousand, Six Hundred Minutes: How Do You Measure, Measure A Year?
Eleven months. Almost to the date.
Between drunken stupors, brief immature stints, or random fucks, I haven’t been in a real relationship for almost a year. As I start to pack my things, I keep coming across little pieces of my immediate past quietly slumbering in old boxes, bottom shelf of my pantry, and of course the frame next to my bed.
“Only thing to do, is jump over the moon.”
As I fold an old sheet set, and put it into a box re-marked [for the third time] “Crap I Should Throw Out, But Keep Moving Place To Place”, I just hum along to the “Rent” Soundtrack. My knees start to burn, and I adjust myself, so I’m sitting cross legged on the hardwood floors. No sooner did the cow, “Ellsey” proclaim the only thing she drank was diet coke, and I was back on my bed on 642 Ridge View Drive, smoking a cigarette, and being held so tight, by none other but Brady.
It’s like I’m looking into the past; my very own “La Vie Boehm.” I’ve acknowledged that I was foolish and immature in a lot of aspects of my life, then. I’ve not only accepted and made my peace with those around me, as well as with myself.
Flipping through old pictures, that didn’t make the cut to be on my “Wall of Friends”, I pause. The texture of the smooth photograph, is not unlike the a small area on the center of your back. The glow in your eyes is still there. The two lines next to the right side of your face, when you smile, still familiar. Your clean masculine scent still does the trick, leaving me to immediately think of you every time someone in passing sports the same cologne.
I scrunch my face up, run my hands through my now, thick and full brown and blonde hair, and shake my head, attempting to distract myself; etch-a-sketching the memory out of my head. Holding something back, I take a deep breath, and seal the fourth box with an unsatisfying rustle of my life being duct taped down. With Angel’s death, I seal away my past, only looking towards the future.
I sit in front of my vanity, and look directly into my own eyes. I know I’m ready. I know I’m ready to give an inch, hell a mile. I’ve amazed myself with the strides I’ve been taking to improve myself, to get here.
Just because I’m ready, it doesn’t necessarily mean he is. We originally broke up because of time management issues, and not being ready to fully dedicate ourselves to each other.
Even though he looks more mature, acts more mature, and overall seems a better person, do I try and force my way into someone’s heart, if they don’t know whether or not they are ready for that?
Isn’t that the best part of a relationship; of love? Sporadic, on a whim, dive in head first, completely consuming yourself with indescribable passion? Or should it be thought through, planned, and scheduled love. Either way, a relationship is going to be work.
The question is, which way is the standard means of obtaining a lasting love? Do you play by the books, or do you swan dive in?
Matty B.
