#59 | more
A cool and not-too-humid summer thursday, one where I can wear jeans and won't suffocate. I watched a movie with friends and felt elated when we left the theater to see the sun still alive and well. We ambled alongside central park for a bite to eat, losing track of time and linear conversation, pulling each other back and forth and giggling.
The movie was an asian lesbian love story. In an early scene, two main characters made love and each said they'd never leave the other. I disconnected. Maybe because their ending was happy, and I barely got an ending at all. The final scene was also a marriage proposal. Marriage is a promise to love, one character said. Aren't promises broken all the time?
After my friends and I parted ways, I met another friend at a bar. He introduced me to his friend P, four months single out of a three-year relationship, who told us he recently went on a family trip to Maine and sat at a bar alone. Everyone left except for one man. They talked for a while and exchanged phone numbers. The next day, they met up and the man confessed he wasn't sure about being queer; he'd never been with another man before, only had intimate friendships. P said they could just make out and it didn't have to go anywhere else. They ended up kissing for an hour on the beach at night. There's your answer, P told him. And that's it; don't know if they'll see each other again.
Real life is fleeting and ambiguous; it's the opposite of marriage, isn't it? People break up and get back together, people hate and forgive. My friend went on a solo trip to Paris and had a triptych of romances with strangers: a stunningly beautiful person he met on a hill and kissed all day long, but is okay with never seeing again; a professor he met in a museum and talked to about poetry and the philosophy of beauty; and a boutique owner he met four years ago, who refuses to know his name or exchange numbers but knows they'll meet again in her shop.
Both of those stories have unwavering confidence and beauty in ambiguity. It was good, and they're not greedy about needing more. They lead fulfilling lives and obligations and aren't throwing everything aside for something they don't even know the future of. They can accept the good and leave things be.
Can I use that to help me accept that it's okay if the person I loved disappeared into thin air? It's so hard. I wrote this out in an effort to try, but at the end I've only uncovered lingering sadness and anger. That's important too, but I wish I could feel love instead. I think this type of acceptance all comes from confidence, though, and I'm building that.