F.
F.
I'm afraid to capture him in my writing, because if he's in my writing, he'll disappear from my real life. It's some kind of subconscious fear connected to my past.
I haven't felt so safe and so relaxed around another person in a long time. I never cease to be amazed at how someone who grew up in a completely different context, with completely different ideas, can so naturally reflect all the things that are important to me. How can he be so much more "European" than all the Europeans I've encountered? Or maybe this has nothing to do with Europeanness at all, but with my personal criteria?
As I write this, I realize – perhaps I'm simply blinded by desire, because sex with him is so good. But it's something of a vicious circle; it's rare to have good sex with someone who's completely wrong for you/when you think they're wrong for you. The language barrier really irritates me; I really want to speak Spanish fluently, or almost fluently. I understand a lot, but I'm afraid of making a mistake.
At last, I see myself.
I am afraid of error, afraid that in truth, I am not good at anything -that I will never become who I am meant to be. I feel like I need to just spend a few weeks in some kind of retreat where I paint pictures and destroy them, until the very picture that was meant to be painted finally expresses itself through me.
Have I become religious? I tell F. that my body was created to be held. F. asks, created by whom? I answer, "I don't know, by the universe, by God, I have no idea." F. says, "That means we have a very, very good God."
I can easily imagine a life with F., but it seems to me that this life will never exist. It's just that this very moment is so dear to me, and I'm so grateful for it, and I don't know how long it will last, but I hope it will be here, constantly, every day.