When you get a crush on someone, foolishness flowers.
But when you fall in love with someone from rather afar, and I think this is different from a crush, for these days enough information is out out there to allow it to happen, how can you possibly respond?
These days, most of us share ourselves. We use Twitter publicly, Facebook with its walled garden which anyone can enter as long as they sign away at least a degree of their anonymity, and for the older or more reflective amongst us – or maybe we could argue in love with precise – there is always good old WordPress et al.
I will always be a blogging soul. I need others’ thoughts to provoke my own, in the absence of any clear singularity I can easily provide for myself. And this is all to the good: it shows we are social beings, above all. I like it a lot. I like it that I cannot function without others’ ideas.
In my life and emotions too.
I cannot love without another’s interest in me. And yet so often in my life I have persisted too long in such matters. And have invented the interest, even where in hindsight it became clear it never was there. And so I have been ill advised in such matters.
The point of today’s post is not quite anything to rightly do with me, however.
Whilst I fall deeply in love with the minds of other people as they have portrayed themselves on the web and social networks, and where their bodies attract me with their appearances too, so equally I wonder how many of us know the extent to which people we do not really know have also fallen in love with us in the same way.
Is it possible at all to gauge how many broken – or incomplete – hearts undiscovered by ourselves have almost touched our own?
And is it inconceivable that in some cases the uncertain moment of first contact between two people who might love each other, which used to precede a greater and more intimate knowledge of their beings, is now postponed for a long time – if, indeed, not forever?
That intimacy I mention – the fact that you may know my every thought before I see your face, and that maybe you hunger for my touch for years before I am even aware of you – is surely strangely peculiar to our connected times.
And I am puzzled as to its implications. And I wonder if you are such a case. And I am unsure how to proceed now.
And I would love to know the truth, the background, the reasoning if not the reasons before I do. For I am weary of the machine’s signs and my having to read them from a distance. And I would so love to know your biography and your context and your reality, and when you first thought you knew me and when you stumbled across me and when you figured you’d finally fallen in love with me. And if not me exactly, then something about me.
I can accept love without a why.
I find it difficult to accept love without the warmth of a person’s touch in my bed and my house, and on my hands and my lips and my tongue and about my mouth.
That I do find difficult.
So show yourself, dear machine. Show yourself once and for all.
For the language of signs tells us so much. But the language of love is quite a different one. And it is the language of love I now want to learn how to speak with you.
Wherever – and however – I myself want me to be.