Women have always said that as young girls they dreamt of love and romance. Myself, I dreamt of dinosaurs, being an Egyptologist and exploring the planet. Not that romance and love weren’t influential, they most certainly were but oh, the feeling of exploration and discovery. It was captivating to imagine. I was going to conquer the world, explore outer space and become the first woman to photograph the deepest depths of the ocean with just one lungful of air.
As a young lady my dreams were more farfetched. True love and being rescued by my perfect prince. He’d climb the sheer stone towers to rescue me from impending doom. He’d sweep me right off my feet and not dare to ever make me cry, his touch would cause rivulets of glitter, cascading waterfalls of rose petals and he’d have my missing glass slipper to slip onto my dainty, perfect little foot.
As a woman, an adult now. Grown and tortured vociferously by humanity. Humiliated beyond repair and sick of it all. I still dream of finding love but it’s different now. It has to be out there because I can feel it, and we all know about ‘if it feels right’.. It’s ironic though, that I’ve experienced love in such a hurtful way yet, it is what my heart truly desires. The risk is so damn great, like convincing yourself to jump from one precipice to the next and you’re not bluffing just so someone else goes first ‘cause you’re all in, you’re in love, baby. And if you don’t make the leap, if you fall for days on end into the infinite valley below only to find yourself gnarled and broken at the bottom you still think it’s all worth it. Because while you flew, you flew higher and better than any other winged thing. Your fall was better too, somehow more romantic and intrinsically valuable.
I’d take that leap of faith this drizzly afternoon if you’d let me; if you’d like me. I’d take it now if you just couldn’t bear the wait. The anticipation is destroying me slowly, fall or fly, up or down, live or die; heaven or hell. It’s the worst, isn’t it?