and upon one silver night…

Ah, I only seem to write about sad things lately…well, let’s change this. This isn’t sad, per se, just…perhaps rueful and regretful. (I’ll have something wonderful to say, soon, I promise. I mean, I hope. But this is a personal blog, not a curated Instagram weblog thing, and life is not perfect all the time. And that’s okay.)

My heart isn’t dead, really. I say it is, and I say that my Noted Ex chewed it up, spat it out, stomped on it, and left me with more scar tissue than heart muscle….which is, actually, very true…but my heart isn’t dead. For so long, I thought it was. I’m not asexual or aromantic — I’m just badly hurt and very timid and distrustful — even though I don’t want to be.

I still have micro-crushes, and I look at people and my heart flutters (then I read about who they are, their passions and interests and loves and my heart pounds), and I would love a girlfriend, really. I would love someone to share my fandom silliness with, and discover things together, someone to sit with in comfortable companionship, someone who would brush my hair out and revel in the fact that they would be the only person I allowed to touch it, someone who would look at me and think “this girl is absolutely mad…and I absolutely love her because of it.”

And then I think, much like I do whenever someone calls me selfish for deciding not to have children: “…if I loved someone, romantically…why would I force them to put up with the hellscape of emotion and intensity and eccentricity that is me? How could I do that to someone I say I love? Or would like to eventually fall in love with?”

It seems very selfish and cruel of me.

But my heart still beats. I want, I want…but I must learn not to. I learned the hard way, with my Noted Ex — there is too much baggage for other people, when it comes to dating or loving me. And while I am disgusted by her outright emotional abuse…I can’t really blame her for thinking that way.

Longing. Longing for a wave of love that would stir in me. That’s what makes me clumsy. The absence of pleasure. Desire for love. Desire to love.
— Marion, Wings of Desire

But…I want…I still want. I still want love.
Perhaps, someday, she will find me dancing in the woods, and call out my name.
“Olorindë, Olorindë…!”

Only the stars ever truly know…and they only whisper their secrets, and they do so in riddles.
Until then…
…heartbeats.
…dreams.