OK, I know this is silly. But last night I really wanted to talk to you about the aurora. I wanted to tell you to go outside and look, and ask if you could see it from wherever you were at the time. I wanted to forward the picture that my brother had sent from his garden: pink waves in the sky. Pure beauty. The magic of space. I wanted to talk to you about the aurora.
Six months ago, I wanted to write a blog post about my excitement that you and I are so perfectly matched. That if there’s anyone who can show you why you’re beautiful and loved, it’s me. It’s me! I wanted to write about insecurity, and the ways we fit together. How desperate I’ve been, all my life, for the chance to pour my love out freely and messily. I needed to capture the moment I knew that it was you I wanted to pour it out for, and share how excited I was to take on the challenge of doing that well.
A different draft, same theme, just reframed: I wanted to thank you for letting me be silly and romantic and over-the-top. Explain how grateful I was to be given space – no, permission – to articulate all the pretty-soft feelings. Revel in the pleasure of knowing that you wouldn’t make me feel cringe for saying them aloud.
I wanted to write that post, and the one before.
I wanted to share this ridiculous picture! It’s me and a friend – another very tall lady – with our two smallest pals in the foreground. The contrast between us makes it look like someone’s been fucking with Photoshop, and I found it really funny. I thought you might too. I wanted to share it.
Another time, another month, another abandoned draft. This one about feeling your heartbeat with the tip of one finger, and how intensely your pulse had resonated inside me. I wanted to feel your blood thump that way again, ask if you understood why it had struck me so powerfully in both my cunt and my heart. Then, with better understanding, I wanted to do that more and more and more and…
Another draft, here, about buses. Except it’s not really about buses, it’s about how you surprised me by acting in a way I didn’t expect. How you taught me something valuable that I urgently needed to learn.
It was a good post, I think, about humility. Understanding. Conflict. Resolution. Love.
It was better than this one.
I wanted to send you a photo of me in the outfit I chose for a fancy event. After hours of sweat and panic, when I finally made the compromise between ‘person I thought I should look like’ and ‘person I know that I am.’ I wanted to send you that picture because I thought I looked quite nice. Not pretty, but maybe hot enough to make up for my woeful lack of nudes. I wanted to…
Three posts, just from yesterday! The first a gleeful, probably-too-smug story about a date. Playful, hopeful, bubbling with joy. The second, more straight-faced but still good I think, about challenges and obstacles and finding a path. The third… well OK that was just porn, but good porn I hope: about that morning when we were in bed and you gripped my hips in your hands and maintained steady eye contact for what felt like an absolute aeon. The good kind of indefinite time – the moment that hovers on a plateau of oh-holy-fuck-this-is-what-they-mean-by-connection, time that you never want to let slip past. I wrote about you looking deep into my eyes as my thighs trembled and my cunt clenched and my soul shattered and I came.
But they’re all abandoned too now, I’m so sorry. My failures just stack up and up, each one marked by an abandoned draft or a photo unshared or a plan for a fuck that never happened. Moment upon moment upon moment when I wanted to show you joy but came up short.
I always just think if I had enough time, enough space, the right fucking words then you would see the lovely picture I’m trying so hard to paint. Then something happens that knocks me off course and the draft gets abandoned again. The picture is no more than a bunch of fuzzy lines, blurred stars, an empty sky. I’m far too embarrassed to show you this mess when I promised something beautiful.
I am bad at my job these days. Very bad. Appalling. I don’t just drop blog posts three paragraphs in, often I freeze up completely. Staring at the page and blocking out any feeling I have that doesn’t serve the cause. Channeling away the sad stuff and laser-focusing on what might come good.
I desperately want to be good.
I am bad at being myself these days. Very bad. Appalling. I’ve failed at the challenge I was so childishly eager to tackle when we first met: pouring out all my love, freely and messily. I thought I’d be so good at this! I can’t comprehend why I’m not.
I know it sounds silly to say this but… fuck… I wanted to show you auroras.