Salutations!

This is my Blogproject. Sit down, stay awhile. Feed the fish, and read some art.
If you like what you see or have any questions or critiques, please let me know.
Yours, Truly.

Sunday, October 23, 2011

The Scientist



Dear Sir,
The evidence is as follows:
I have never been normal. The days of wanting to change that are long gone, but you make me feel like I could be... stable. Like everything is just a little bit easier than I thought it was. I've been struggling at things that can just... be.
You make me feel real, like a real person. And for years I’ve been living like that’s not me: like rules don’t apply to me, like other people aren’t speaking the same language as I am. It feels like I’ve been trying to communicate with crude charades without getting through, until now.
When you feed me, I feel cherished. My parents fed me for my entire life and never made me feel like this. At dinner every night I am warm inside, from more than the soup.
But you also care about me— not just for me with meals or homework help. You care about me with private telling glances and appropriately-placed worrying. You care about me with early morning wake-ups and late night (occasionally comatose) cuddling sessions.
I never know how to say the things brewing inside me, but you make me want to. You make me want to tell you everything, and not just the stuff I know you want to hear. You make me search for myself and turn what I find into words.
You teach me so much. Not only with the astonishing array of facts you carry around in that head of yours, but with the way you live. You teach me to be better, to be kinder, to think more and to try harder.
You show me a man that I could love— if love were an acceptable, operationally defined term, that is. But if it is never defined, how do we know we aren't missing it?
What if that sleepy smile you give me over oatmeal and chocolate milk, and the kiss you leave smouldering on the back of my neck when you go to work is—
What if the comforts of my embrace as you shift between nightmares, or the purposefully neglected silk I leave home in favour of your discarded clothing is
What if it isn't? I'm much less prepared to accept that.
In conclusion, I love you.
By default, by design, if not entirely by definition.
Let's redefine.
Yours, Truly.

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