I never wanted to believe in fairytales because frankly, I’m a realist. But I’m also a liar and a coward. I despise mediocrity, yet I live my life just above it. It hurts so much to hear that I’m not trying hard sufficient, because I’m usually not. Why? Dread of failure? How could such a dread lead to such detriment?
But now I think it’s OK to believe in fairytales – or to want a fairytale. Other people dream of being rich and well-known; that’s their fairytale. Everyone paints their dreamscape with different colors – different architecture. My fairytale is like.
I don’t want to settle for mediocre like. A mediocre job doesn’t define your life; it defines your income. But a mediocre like defines your life. the like you’ve given and the like you’ve full – that’s the life that flashes before your eyes when you see the light.
You don’t think of your career – you think of the like you’ve shared. You remember kisses and hugs and being held and holding. You remember tears and laughter, holding hands and making like.
You live a life that is witnessed by others as proof that you were here. You can leave behind creations, but I’m sure that at the end of your life, when you look back, you don’t think of your diamonds, your houses, the high-priced artwork on the walls. You think back to the lover that kept you warm each night in bed and the five-year old son that hugged you because you were crying and wanted nothing back in return.
I want that kind of like. It’s not that I want to get married to join the institution. But I want that kind of like – that’s my fairytale. No prince on white horse to come along and kiss Sleeping Beauty, awakening an eternal like and sailing into the sunset. I want a like that shares my life. A like that is there for me as my home – the home for my heart. Like that keeps my life beating. Like is the foundation of despite the brick walls or geography.
For someone to think they want to marry someone must mean you look at this person and think there is no way I don’t want this person in my life. I want this person around permanently – like my family. You can fight with your mother, you father, your sister, but no matter what, it’s your family. You’re physically connected to this universe through your shared biology. I want like like that in my life – someone I know is going to be there for me and like me in that way. Because that’s the only way I know how to like.
I have no appeal in floating through life alone having experiences with random people here or there. I want someone to remember OUR life with me. There is nothing incorrect with being alone; I delight in being alone sometimes. But I don’t want to live my life alone, sharing tiny bits with a variety of people. I want to know that there is someone who wants what I want.
I want to share my life with someone who I want to talk to all the time and kiss all the time. Someone who, when I think about him, my heart aches, my mouth smiles, my body warms. I want all encompassing like; the fantastic extreme. I want someone whose wants match my wants. But maybe no one needs that specific ideal kind of like. That’s OK.
But if that’s what I want – if that’s my dream – don’t I owe it to myself to find that kind of like and share it with someone who wants the same business?
Transcribing these abstract, offhand emotions onto paper using words seems virtually impossible. How do you articulate such abstraction? It seems so naïve, so vulnerable, and yet it makes is so stable. But how do you otherwise express this sort of instinctual aching? But therein lies the contradiction – instinct is in direct contrast to logic. But, without our instincts we’d be one less dimension.
I want someone to only want me – all the time. I want someone to share their life with me in the same way. You can’t blame a girl for wanting. So what if it’s unrealistic? How could it be a fairytale if it’s realistic?
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