Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam
magicmarmot

Shoes and Ships and Ceiling wax?

Why is it when I try to think of how I'm feeling, the subject of women always comes up?

Some sort of morphodite dream last night with no real imagery but a vague sense of missing someone very near and dear to my heart, that feeling when you have a breakup of the first morning when the other person isn't there in the bed next to you and won't be ever again.

Gak, splat.

On one hand, because it's not real, it's something that's relatively easy to dismiss as an anomaly with the knowledge that it's not gonna stick around for long.

On the other, I shouldn't have to deal with it at all. It's sucktacular, and I didn't sign up for it.

It's not that I have intimacy issues. It's that I have non-intimacy issues.

(BTW, What's the opposite of intimacy? Extimacy?)

Someone recently called me complex. I think it was complimentary, as in 'having layers of interesting depth' and not 'wouldn't touch you with a 3.2-meter pole', but it's sometimes hard to fathom.

Some days I want to take out my brain and choke it like Homer Simpson choking Bart and tell it Yeah Pokey, I get it, I miss true honest intimacy.

And maybe that's the thang. Maybe it's the illusion that I miss, and not real intimacy. Maybe it's the Hollywood-idealized romantic fluidization of love with a warm white diffusion filter and an orchestral swell and the sheets gently positioned just so so as to catch the gentle swell of her breast but leave the nipple covered, to expose a creamy thigh glowing in the sun's dappled rays.

It's not the smell of morning breath, or the crusty eyes of after-party, or the did-you-just-fart smell.

However it does include the silly word games, the jokes and laughing, the help-me-hold-this, the cuddling on the couch, the you-are-so-evil-I'll-get-you-back moments, the I-just-want-to-touch-you-because-I-can times.

Okay, enough of this. I must now get on with other things.
Tags: angst, babble, love
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