Impulse

But alone-ness doesn’t  have to mean loneliness.- Pavi 

More and more I find myself giving into my desires and impulses regardless of the consequences. Because it thrills me.  Even when I know the consequence is heartache or rejection I don’t shy away from it. My friends tell me to be careful, not to get hurt. But that’s the risk, and the potential for pain is just as much a part of living as the potential for happiness. 

Rejection doesn’t scare me. “No,” doesn’t hurt me.  But to live this life of abandon you MUST be prepared to break, then pick up the broken pieces and live. It is not enough to “carry on.” You must LIVE.

At times it feels like I’m living my life in reverse. Between the ages of 19 and 24 I wanted nothing more than to settle down, be a mother, be a wife. I wanted to build a home, and love someone into wholeness.  That didn’t quite work out, and in hindsight, I’m glad it didn’t- you can’t love someone into wholeness; you must love someone who is whole on their own.

These days  I find I meet men I want to be with; men I want to talk to, share with, enjoy; without title, without category, without time, without limit. Just to take this moment and whatever moments are to come and see how it goes. But they have passed that stage of dalliance and are looking to settle into the women they have by their sides. They aren’t looking for something new or unexplored; they aren’t looking for a risk.

I imagine that I see in their eyes a spark, a curiosity about what would happen if they picked me- the open, the unknown. But  society programs us to understand that stability  is “right.” They won’t pick the wild card.

Or may be they just don’t want me. (My ego doesn’t want me to believe that. Ha!)

Sometimes I remember lying on the bridge of the catamaran. I sleep to the lullaby of a gently rocking boat as we speed toward Santa Cruz. The roar of the water as we slice through it and glimpses of the frothy white punctuated by iridescent, luminescent fish was partially dream, partially imagination. The persistent awareness of a warm body lying inches away; the warm body of a soft haired, puppy eyed boy of my infatuated dreams was real. That was real. 

He is not single. Somehow he is ok with my occasional outburst of “gah, I want to kiss you” and random flirtations. He understands my impulsiveness and my abandon and he has to reject me over and over again; and yet somehow he’s not awkward when we hang out. It’s a strange thing to encounter. It’s enchanting. It’s a strong stance on life, I admire it.

I have more broken memories of buddies and threaded fingers, laughter and drunken dancing, soft lips that taste like Marlboros and pilsener.Intoxicating. I have memories that feed my overactive imagination and create white hot dreams; brown sugar dreams.

So I have no limits on my sensuality and zest for life and just so much going on that I don’t have time to over-think each day. I’m free.

A small thought nags in the brief moments of quiet… while I continue on this path, unbroken, is there a wake of destruction that follows me? Is there a cost to my Impulses?

 

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