For one reason or another, probably one I’ll never figure out- I’ve always used my commute home as a milestone in life. My commute from work to home, from being out with friends, from coming home after holidays with my family. It’s the extensive time in the car, carefully navigating to the address I currently call home, from wherever life had taken me that day.
I feel like such a lame ass always writing about the same thing but I’ve been so over-the-top thrilled with life the past year that I can’t help but to let my content state completely consume me.
I can’t call it dating, but I’ve been spending time recently with a guy I met a few years ago. Someone I met at work, como siempre. Someone I always knew I had everything in common with, without actually realizing we really do have everything in common.
He would kill me if he knew I said we weren’t dating.
I hate that I fall in love with everyone I meet. And it’s not a terrible quality. It’s a terrible quality how quickly I fall out of love too.
Recently someone I care for told me without telling me, “I like you- but I’ll never love you.”
And it’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but every time I hear it, it hurts just like the first. I’m told I’m so amazing, but that it won’t ever actually amount to anything. And it’s true, I hurt everyone before they hurt me. I leave everyone before I’m the one that’s left, and it’s such an ugly quality but it’s basically the only one I’ve got.
So, I’m sitting in his car drinking a load of water because he won’t let me drive home within an hour after we stopped drinking. He’s telling me these things I haven’t heard in a long time, and he’s playing all my favorite songs without me having to name them all. And I’m looking into his beautiful eyes, and I so badly want to tell him that I love him, but I feel like such a hypocrite, because I don’t think I even know what love is.
The windmills on the Altamont Pass looked beautiful tonight and I couldn’t help but to catcall to the parked BART trains on 580. I can’t help but to fall into a whirlwind of euphoria at this beautiful life I wrote, to be exactly what I wished for.
So, who’s to tell me what I love or don’t love, what love is or what love isn’t. I pass the word out so freely to my friends and to my girls. Why don’t I pass it out as freely to the ones I see romantically?
Do I claim to not be in love because I’m not? Or because I’m too afraid to admit.
Wild Little Hare 