This evening I did something that has become rare. I curled up on the couch and read and read and read. Kellie from Nothing Less leant me one of the books she reviewed: Dear Mr. Knightley. I'm pretty sure it's a spin-off of Daddy Long Legs, which I read two years ago, but this version is wonderfully scintillating. Anyway, I sat on the couch bundled up, with my dog at my feet, absorbed in Sam's world.
I read the scene where she and Kyle write everything out--all their real-life nightmares of their time in the foster system, life with abusive parents, all the secrets that have held power over them. (I was reminded why I want to be a foster parent--to make a difference and be different.)
I'm e-mailing a guy right now. And my natural inclination as the days pass for him to respond is to create a false intimacy between us. We've only exchanged, what, three e-mails maybe?
I'm assuming all girls do, but sometimes I crave the intimacy of--how to word this--almost like a diary/therapist combined. Someone to assuage the feather twirling around in the air, tossed on every wind, and to help bring it back softly to earth.
But I can't assume that with a stranger, can I? I have to be patient. I have to stand back. I have to force myself to let things progress at a natural pace.
I'm not naturally patient with things like this.
So I decided to blog instead. Because I want to communicate with someone, and a blog seems more readable than a journal entry that only I will read.
Does any of this make sense? Probably not. But when you've been romantically reading late on a wintry night, it's less about rationality and more about feelings.
And in the end, I can talk things out with God. And when I do, I feel just as comforted, if not more so, than I would with an infinite human.
*rotic: romance without the man
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