You know, what spring does and all.
That is what you want to do, isn’t it?
neruda
Your presence is foreign, as strange to me as a thing.
I think, I explore great tracts of my life before you.
You’re a fabulous idea.
It’s funny how you can grow before me, grow on me. I have not suffered entirely getting to know you, I think. Maybe I’ve blushed a few times. Maybe I’ve felt a bit disoriented by some of those long, deliberate silences. Maybe I’ve stumbled over a few words when I’m not nearly as careful as I could be.
But you’re harmless as just an idea. You’re nice to think about. You grow in a different way when I simply think about you. Not nearly as dynamically, but in a way that I can tend. Until there’s you and there’s the idea of you. And you’re a wonderful idea. But you’re much better when you’re not.
Because perhaps the only thing stronger than an idea is when that idea takes shape, however sufferable. As the pieces fall together, I like you better than the idea of you. It becomes harder to remember you as you were before you existed, because I seem to enjoy more the fact that you exist.
I’ll admit part of me swooned when you referenced Mauss. But part of me almost felt violated.
I sometimes feel too well-known when people read the same books as I. I feel like they have a part of me that way and I, by extension, have a part of them by knowing what they’ve read. I start to associate them with the work. They become part of it
It’s not the same with movies. There’s just something about books.
But that’s the very spirit of the gift, isn’t it? You give me part of yourself and I’m indebted. I give you some of me and you’re in my debt. And you know how I feel about power exchanges.
It’s funny to remember you as you were before you existed, subtle visitor. You know how I’ve suffered getting accustomed to you.