I am the art, the art is me

I had dinner with my once…well, what was or is he. A fling? No – not enough. A love – perhaps, but maybe it’s brash to go there on the little time we had. I’m not sure what label to prescribe to him but labels were never really something he’d be interested in wearing to be matter of fact.

So we had dinner.

As if he hadn’t been around the world and back and wasn’t leaving again within 72 hours. To be honest – I’d blown him off the last time he was in town. I wasn’t sure I wanted to even venture down the path of being subjected to the narrative. You see, the relationship or potentential for a relationship had fallen away before the first flight abroad.

I stood my ground.

“You’re leaving in (however many) months and I cannot let myself get attached to someone who isn’t going to be here and that also won’t be fair to you, where you need to go and focus on work and this entire experience.”

Did that second part actually come out of my mouth or do I want to flatter myself in this retelling as if I’m a better person than that – that my decision wasn’t solely based off of “How much will I get hurt if I continue this if you leave.” Who can say.

So here he was, Green Bay Packers hat atop his head per usual.

We pick up right where we left off…wherever we left off.

The conversation runs the gamut of life and death, of art, of success, of creativity, of passion, of happiness, of American culture being a path destined to ruin us all with outlandish and unrealistic ideals and how ‘content’ seems to be a suitable word.

And the ideal of ‘free’ love having nothing to do with promiscuity but everything to do with true intimacy that isn’t just the motions.

I’ve been caught in that place for some time. Of being tired of all the talk. Of the foreplay. Of meeting people afraid, with walls up even when all the clothes come off. Of people who have no real desire to connect and who are so afraid to be seen truly for who and what they are that their entire life seems to be an act.

And how much of that is all of us? How much are all of us acting? And for whom?

What do we cling to to make us feel safe in our own skin? I think I’ve given up feeling that way. Everything terrifies me and I live within that state of total fear but that’s where I feel most comfortable. When I’m not uncomfortable, then I know that something isn’t right.

Contentment is not complacency. Not for me. There’s a difference. There’s a choice in being very content with my life as it is and not being complacent with what it’s become. It also weighs heavily on the desire to be ‘something more’ and all that THAT entails. And how you define it, etc.

No thank you.

Sometimes you just have to be in the moment. You have to stop premeditating, stop planning, stop thinking, stop plotting, stop recounting, stop trying to make sense of it all and let yourself just LET GO.

Give in.

Give up.

Give yourself over.

httpa://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ODG2dCwnr00