the last embassy
enjelani's journal archives

[ cast of characters ]

[ go to the archives ] [ return to the present ]

20 February 2003 (Thursday)

the last innocent

I recommend getting your heart trampled on to anyone
I recommend walking around naked in your living room
Swallow it down (what a jagged little pill)
It feels so good (swimming in your stomach)
Wait until the dust settles

You live you learn
you love you learn
you cry you learn
you lose you learn
you bleed you learn
you scream you learn

- Alanis Morrisette, "You Learn"

I have no battle scars. Ex #1 was merely a friend with makeout privileges; he and I called it quits as we curled up on a couch together, and stayed that way for another hour or so afterwards. Ex #2, the first love, simply spoke my own fears aloud, and while it was painful to hear, I knew even then that it was wisdom. I was the one to do the leaving with ex #3, a man smart enough to create distance until wounds healed, and possessed of enough grace to let me back into his life eventually as a friend. So I've never been the one left clutching a black void in my chest, trying to remember how to survive nightfall alone. Never had to find the strength to forgive someone for long months of futile aching. Memories of past intimacies never trigger pain -- only fondness, sometimes gratitude.

Outside of dating I'm still the innocent. School, work, people: negotiating them all came to me with relative ease, and if I was never the fastest or smartest or most popular, I had more than enough to get by and fit in. When I set myself to anything it came out decently; when I threw myself into something it usually came out well. Defeat was always temporary, just a sign that I was looking in the wrong direction. None of this hazy uncertainty of what-should-I-do-with-myself, what-if-I'm-not-really-good-at-anything? On another horizon, a new kind of success has always waited.

Lucky bastard. Yes. Sure.

But there's a reason why I can't feel the full impact of a piano sonata. Or be moved to tears by a sunrise over a mountain. Or taste a real sense of triumph. Everything's been too easy for that. The one miracle is Soren, whom I love as though I'd lost him once long ago, as though this were an impossible second chance to say and do everything I'd forgotten the first time around. But the rest of it is a watercolor painting. No heavy black for shadows and depth.

Still...I've many years to go. Something or someone may yet bring me to my knees. This story isn't over.

posted by enjelani @ 10:01 PM PST [ link ]