Skipping home in running shoes (Converse are the closest thing I've ever had to running shoes, I love the tap-tap-tap-tap as they hit pavement, or tiled stairs...), leaping over yawning gaps in sidewalks, yearning to race down the middle of the road like onceuponatime drunk beyond any sense of self-preservation.
Free, really.
Couldn't race down the street, tho. Last time Lucky wandered back in, face flushed with the trip-trip-trippinness, he told us the story in thewayonlyLuckycan about being stopped by the cops for walking.
Apparently there were a lot of cops about last night, but it was never determined if it was just one car with Lucky wandering around and around it thinking he was seeing lotsuvem, or if'n there were lotsa cops about...
'nyway...
I peaked as Marc was passing out, as Lucky, who'd dropped a couple of hours before us, was coming down.
I spouted a few kernels of trippy nonsense and skipped out the door into cold night air.
Unbelievable air.
Running, with my arms above my head, glorying in the rush of free wind.
Racing down the block with the fish-market on it, then running back because in my haste I'd forgotten to experience it.
By the time I got to my building, towering in it's majestic Oldness, I didn't want to go in yet.
I watched the sun rise.
A bunch of guys in a boat of a car yelled at "the girl on the stoop" to come join them for a real party.
I had my keys in my hand, so I went inside, heard them jeering all the way up the 54 steps.
Tap-tap-tap, fifty-four times, in glorious ryhtm.
I could go on about it forever.
I called Rob once I'd managed to collect enough to remember his number, melted into the morning with him.
Surprised a little at his need for roundabout non-sequiturs to ask me if I still loved him.
Yes, Rob, I do.
In that secret place where I allow that sort of thing.
Now, sopping from a lovely bath, trying to remember where I put that skirt I found yesterday, still trip-trip-tripping a little because I only slept about three hours, I'm thinking about love, not the playing-kind, the permanent kind. I'm bored of games... I've played them to death-match finality and moved on to inneresting things.
So the kind I'm thinking about now is the ideal kind.
As usual.
Y'see, I figure if I think about it enough, inspiration will strike and I'll understand, right?
Everything else has always worked that way.
Nothing is beyond comprehension. Not people, not the intricacies of computers, not god or creation or the call of the wild spirit.
Nothing.
It just takes time and research sometimes, but...
This love thing.
People so desperate to love somone, to be completed. To be motivated by someone else, or accompanied at least, to make their experiences mean more.
I don't get that.
I get the poetry of it, the dreaminess, in that idyllic place in my head when I lie back, it's a beautiful addition to the serenity.
But, it's not the end-all, be-all... Y'know?
That's not it, though.
It's the concept of what I'm looking for.
It's not that I don't want to be on a pedestal - it's that if I'm on a pedestal then you're obviously not who I'm looking for, and you're obviously not seeing me. Boring.
That sounds trite, but I'm still tripping.
It's just that...
While I love the people in my life so dearly I wish I could crawl inside them sometimes...
This in love business asks for more from me.
It asks for someone, no - I ask for someone with a greater sense of self than I have.
Someone who is themselves first, and willing to love me after.
But the current implementations of such always seem to accompany selfishness, or self-centredness, or the inability to listen sometimes, or get over themselves...
Just as I do, of course.
I get so caught up because This Idea Is So Important, that I forget that you've prolly got one too.
I'm learning to listen.
I just wish I could show you what that means in the inner workings of my head.
Just hand it to you, neatly wrapped in brown paper and butcher's-string, let you devour it, then move on together.
And so I write... Wrecked and baked and sopping wet, about to dress for some wedding.
But first - coffee.