I wanted to keep this entry simple; I wanted it to be about missing my friends and wishing transporter devices were real. I wanted to say two or three gooey things about the ease of love and how important ache is, and then I wanted to fuck off and practice violin.
But, when I opened up the laptop, I realized I couldn’t talk about missing my friends without also addressing the chemistry involved, and the general uselessness of categories when it comes to how I invest. And that was a hard confrontation; my insides are messy and roiling and belligerent. They don’t want to be discussed or understood; they want to be felt, immediately and unrepentantly. Trying to paint a picture of the hot screaming mess that is my perpetual yearn is going to reduce my vocabulary to a series of pitiful grunts before it equals anything even vaguely cohesive.
When I was a child, I missed my best friends so thoroughly that I thought about them all the time. I wanted to share everything that happened with them, I wanted every experience to be one we had together. There was an urgency to the missing, an irrational conviction that told me if we weren’t immediately and always together, we would be less, somehow. Less close, less intense, less one.
As I aged, I learned that friendships stay because the intensity is malleable. I saw my friends through a less heat riddled light that neglected to turn me golden, but nonetheless kept me warm throughout the years. I discovered that pining for potential lovers felt a lot like the angst I’d felt as a child; a hopeless, fruitless, yearn for something that existed only in my head. I became a person who never pined for people; I discovered that my love is more colorful if it is fueled by the orb of singularity that is created when two people connect. I am someone who sticks to boundaries and balance, and lets chemistry and care do the rest.
The first few times I fell in love, I hopped on the exaggerated-import roller coaster eagerly each time. I flung myself to the furthest corner of my care and found my dismissal and intolerance tucked neatly into the folds of my selflessness and flexibility. I pushed and stayed, each time, until I thought I would not find my way back. And when, finally, I left, I turned my back on ashes, but strode with acceptance, and new stretch marks on my soul.
Ultimately, I went the monogamous route. I have kept my beloved friends for decades and counting. I spent years holding fast to the friends and lovers categories, looking at each with increasing disappointment as the years meandered. As my friends spread across cities and my lover stayed mostly by my side, I discovered that distance had blurred my care too often and too wantonly for the categories to sit unruffled. I tossed them aside, and promptly fell.
Falling in love has so many restrictions; it seems like a lie when we describe it. But who lies about the fall? Who will tell you, without a shred of honesty, that you mean more to them than is in infinity, that you couldn’t trade your care for them for any quantity or quality of sublime otherness. I decided my categories were unhelpful, and when I left them behind, I fell for my friends. Each fall is different, like weather and days and kisses. There’s no limit, any more. It’s gone, and I’m free, and missing my people has been my favorite ride so far.