It’s that time of year again… “the most wonderful time of the year” where we wonder what actually happened to the last 365 days and why something magnificently fabulous hasn’t yet occurred. The year is full of such instances. Time seems to be measured by these cyclical moments of tradition which leaves us in contemplation, evaluating what we have and have not done, where we are and where we have not yet been.
All I know is that I did not plan on being here. Literally. I should be in Barcelona right now, wrapped in love and a layer of tapas-induced squishiness. It is no longer pride that prevents me from going although, rest assured, I retain my dignity. The fact is that I am no longer sure I want to grace the Catalonian region with my presence. It has been some time, I believe, since I last transported myself in my thoughts and dreams to wherever Lol is. However, this does not mean that I have given up on the fantasy that he will come to me from the end of the world or wherever he has disappeared to in the big wide universe. In my weak inability to accept that this will never happen, I remain static. I produce a semblance of moving forward in my life when in fact, I move only in a direction that would still enable me to be found by him.
It could be called progress to say that in the fantasy, once he does arrive, I find myself no longer able to melt into his arms. The more sand accumulates at the bottom of the limitless hourglass, the more I remain frozen, uncertain how to proceed. My love remains, constant yet increasingly inaccessible every day and I feel something that I can neither reach nor use. How I will digest this concept over time remains unknown, even to me.
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