A conversation: that is what my therapists simplifies relationships down to--a conversation that endures, that changes and becomes more complex, yet clearer, with the passing of time. We talk incessantly, which also means we listen and reflect incessantly. I feel as if I am always conversing with him, especially when he is not around. Thoughts snap and flash like Maltese fireworks in summer, sometimes lasting long enough to imprint themselves upon the landscape of my mind. They transform later into face-to-face talks we have. Sometimes they fizzle into the fringes of my emotional framework. I forget about them until the feeling resurfaces, usually brought on by touching his face, laughing loudly at his witticisms, or lonesomely reflecting on the nights he spends with his wife.
This is a brand-new thread, a dialog in its infancy--the frontiers of formality, of comfortable representation, and of shaky self-disclosure are still being forged and redrawn constantly. The brokenness is there, on both sides, and the gaps, chinks, and lulls filled, synthesized, brought together by a burgeoning--oh, let's call it happiness and ripening sense of safety.
I am unraveling, like the protagonist in "The Yellow Wallpaper." I fear that same violent abandon enveloping me, freeing me from the oppressive ennui of loneliness and inserting me into the realm of chaotic liberty. However, mine is a rage of delight, a rapture so profound and edifying that it simultaneously causes me to neglect my obligations whilst acknowledging the hegemonic nature of being in love, of being able to discard the world for awhile for the sake of this experience of unadulterated ecstasy. Love has made me both in and out of control, and it is quite weird.
