a rainy day to be existential

I have the worst propensity to fall in love with boys I don’t know. Not in person, at least. I’d come across a piece of art they had made, or a poem they’d written, or an image they’d captured, or a song they’re strumming /crooning/wailing through a microphone and my heart and logic fall into smithereens.

I fall in love with creative boys. Pardon, men. When particles of a person is gathered and percolated into some form of creation, and when my mind follows the crevices and swirls of his story I learn to love a facet of the creator. It’s easy to love someone from his work because without knowing his person, I make up this ideal of him from the works he has distilled for me and ideals are much easier to love than actual human beings. Noted, a love of ideals can also go disturbingly wrong. Take for example, Fascism.

A friend recently gave me a piece of artwork for my birthday and I was smug for days. Pre-pubescent giggling kind of smug. I’ve written verse for people too, which were met with equivalent response. I don’t think the men quite giggled. Maybe they do in private. But I feel something untranslatable happens in these exchanges, when we give someone a portion of ourselves. I could be waxing romantic about it, but I don’t think anyone dislike something that is created specifically for them. Twenty-five-years-old macaroni-necklaces attest to this phenomenon. There is the intangible in these tangible objects, that when the desiccated corsage is pulled from a drawer and a letter creased yellow, gingerly re-opened after four decades and two wars and three children (one dead), we find that facet of the person again.

Advertisements