It's late. My eyes are mere slits staring a bright monitor. My ears absorb the sounds of the night, and of Burial emanating from my speakers. I'm supposed to make sense of my notes. It's an incoherent mess, the rumblings of a madman. At least, that's how it appears to the outsider. They make perfect sense to me. They make no sense to me.
"This girl I know. She has an urban head and a rural heart."
Yes, this is how I'm going to start this dedication.
"She does this thing, where she looks at me (when I'm knee-deep in Contemplation Lake), and says my name in a manner only she knows. I always return that with a stoic 'Yes? ', while inside I'm screaming 'Yes! I have a name! By golly, I have a name! And doesn't she know it!"
That came out of leftfield. I thought I was dedicating.
"I'm not perfect. She listens to my endless problems, new and old, with genuine interest. I ramble, I don't want to bore her with my thoughts. I don't want to bore her with my drone-like voice. I wanna hear hers instead. I'd give a penny to hear her thoughts, though they are worth a king's ransom."
I have officially lost the plot. I suppose there's a chance for recovery here.
"I dreamt once, that we got lost in an enchanted forest. We danced, full of life, comfortable and warm in each other's presence. By all accounts, it should be a pleasant dream: but it isn't."
Woah, Nelly. Plot-twist. I see what I did there! Not really. I don't know where I was going.
"That level of comfort is overwhelming, and almost always overrides my rational thoughts. Such as…the thought of breaking a promise for the first time. The promise that I'd always be in her life in some capacity. I don't blame her. I blame myself. For being too adventurous, and jumping down crevasses without a lifebuoy."
Ooo boy, water analogies and such and such. But I got lost again. Let's just see how far does the crevasse goes then.
"She's said no before. Twice, in fact. Almost the very same day, separated roughly six years apart. She didn't say it in those exact words, but I suppose it was as close as she would get. But…it doesn't seem to stop me from wanting her. From wanting to be her mistake. To eventually be the empty space that frustrates her. To be the story she tells her best friend over a glass of orange juice. The cautionary tale of love."
The drugs are strong in this one.
"To let them play charades, and guess which monster I became. Let her draw me in the air with her soft hands, describe my movements with her delicate fingers, let her eyes sparkle with anger at ever having fallen for me. To be the shot of pixie dust that brings her over the edge. To be the reason she slurs her words. To be the reason she regrets everything in the morning. To be the reminder that alcohol will never be a better substitute for making her heart race."
That's some mighty wishful thinking there. I must have had rainbows for breakfast.
"Then I realize how selfish all of that is. That - and projecting something on something that's never been. In actuality, hoping to gladly be the mistake she learns from."
I saw the light. It was glorious. Then I tripped and fell back down the crevasses. Floating, unceremoniously, and unconscious.
"As a writer, things on my end…end up rather muddled. Not because of feelings. But because of a real-life story I was written into. I lie awake tortured by the plot line I summon her into. Giving her shoes, that are not shoes, but soles that carry her over new lands. Giving her strength, to ensure that she changes the world in ways I never could. In my stories, she's a villain one moment, a plagued woman the next. Worthy of death, and of devotion. I despise her by the end of chapter nine, and I'll revive her before the final page."
Those two friends always said that I should turn my love life into a novel, a movie. Something. I regain consciousness and ask myself why exactly do I say she has an urban head, and a rural heart.
"Her heart is there with the fields of our 'continent-men'. In the small town, where she dreamt of a different world. In the smiles of children, whose innocence has not yet been taken. Sometimes, I wonder if the city is too much for her. If she would rather sit somewhere far away, and watch the large glowing sphere rise slowly into the dull morning sky. If she'd rather bathe in that easy warmth, rather than the coldness of the urban jungle."
I always take her for granted.
"Perhaps you were expecting some surprise. For me to reveal something that has eluded you - that would change your perspective of events - shatter you to your core. There is nothing. Nothing you don't already know. There is no great revelation. There is only you."
So much for that dedication.
"This is a toast to the girl with the urban head, and a rural heart."