Velocity

Two thousand nine hundred ninety five kilometers is a long way away. Definitely not the farthest corner of the world, but not such an easily reached one, either. Six weeks past (and another six weeks coming) is a lot of time to be apart for two thousand nine hundred ninety five kilometers.

In physics, distance over time makes for speed, but that's just a magnitude, and I'd hate to think of us as going nowhere fast (or slowly). When it comes to me and you, it's really more of a matter of velocity.

See, I never thought I could deal well with displacement. I am the first half of Newton's First Law of Motion personified:

A body at rest will remain at rest unless acted on by an external force.

And you, my darling, are an unstoppable force. You're never afraid to shake things up, to nudge us into new directions. You are the mover and shaker of my world. Inert as I am, I tried to resist by preferring that we both just stay here, two pairs of feet planted firmly on familiar soil. But this time apart has made me realize that those prideful statements about breaking things off are essentially balderdash (thank God for trial runs).

To be honest, I'm still not enthusiastic over the time and distance thing, and I'm hoping to finally have you with an average velocity of zero, back home with me. But if you need to be displaced, then I will be, too. Between the two of us, the math shouldn't be as hard as it sometimes looks. If it came down to a choice between being in motion and losing my guiding force, then I would be off at the speed of light in whatever direction you needed me to be.

(Full disclosure: You know I'm horrible at Physics, so every science-y thing here should be taken with a grain of salt and a ton of artistic license.)

Counting Years

If you ever read my older, mushier posts, you'd know about my ex-ex. We keep getting back together that my friends all tease me about not being single since I was thirteen, and thus being terribly out of the dating/flirting game. But we can't help it. We're just so much better at being together.

She's the most awesome person I know. And she's such a big part of the person I've slowly morphed into for the past years. She helped me grow up (haha) by growing with me. 

I try not to write about her, because--for all my love of words--I still know I could never do her justice. I'd either come up too short, or too mushy that my insides might melt--like how they feel even just as I'm trying. [See what I mean? B, if you're reading this, it's honestly the reason why I don't write about you much.]

Considering we first got together on her 13th birthday, it has now been 7 years of on and off bliss (for the most part), and incredible comfort and contentment (all the time). We've stopped trying to count because we couldn't agree on what years to include.

But if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that I've been in love with just one person for the past 7 years. Definitely no contest about that one.

Taken some years ago.
Okay, I look like a dog here. But never mind that.

*I'm sorry for the mush. It's my girlfriend's birthday, I hope you understand.

Horror Vacui

I've never been afraid of empty spaces. In fact, you know how much I detest crowds and cramped spaces, almost to the point of claustrophobia. There's a certain unpleasantness in having to compete for space and having to get stuck with people I don't know—especially with relationships.

I've always thought of myself as a lone wolf. I manage best on my own. Friends are great, but the freedom of making decisions for myself and not having to depend on anyone appeals to me. In the last couple of years I've managed to train myself in the art of self-sufficience. I've gone from clingy to detached. Don't ask me how or why, but something changed.

Lately, however, I'm starting to become afraid again. Those careless, costly mistakes are taking their toll. I'm running the risk of losing you—and despite my best efforts, I'm absolutely terrified.

You see, you are an exception. To others I'm calm and collected. I laugh and I'm silly, and I care deeply for my friends, but even my closest friends only go so deep. It's gotten to the point where there's an automatic barrier that they can't simply cross. I'm also the best quitter there is—when something annoys or disinterests me, I walk away. I avoid, I resist, and I hide. But you I can never hide from.

With you I'm rash, impractical, emotional; totally irrational. I'm child-like—both when I try too hard to be cute, and when I forget that I'm not supposed to be too vulnerable. I don't know if that's the worst of me, but it's the part of me that drops my defenses. I guess it's also what allows me to feel most contented and at peace when I'm with you.

But with what I've been doing, I've been shutting you out. I apologize for being selfish and stupid and uncaring. It's far less than what you deserve.

It's amazing how you put up with me for the last seven years, when every now and then I have to pull a major overhaul of my attitudes. But here I go again. Someday soon, I'll make it up to you and all that patience will pay off.

I'll make sure of that. Because there are some things I can't afford to lose.

It seems, that the only space I'm afraid to leave empty is the one I've reserved exclusively for you.

image source