There Is Nothing More Basic

It's not the memories exactly that seem to be irritating me. I guess it's an attempt at reconciling the acknowledgement that you can share such enormous chunks of beautiful moments, ideals, and virgin feelings with another person and that those can so easily be cheapened (in appearance, at least) through that person either repeating those, so easily, with another, or simply making decisions or building relationships that go directly against the version of that human that you not only knew, but believed so righteously in the moment that you had some sort of original patent on. And I can't decide exactly whether to feel stupid, confused, or… pathetic? Whatever feeling I'm feeling, I have felt before. It is one that aggressively begs me to summon the gods of all that is basic and answer my plea. Is this not the most basic shit?! It is. It is basic. This word is one that I find my fellow youths taking for granted, all too often, and using it in my very least favorite way; to shine dark on women as one-dimensional, less than fully valuable characters. Used specifically in comparison to otherwise superior, multi-dimensional female characters. But I love this word, when used as more of an edifice. It is one that deserves true, rare, savory grit. So allow me to indulge in this.

There is nothing more basic than the ability to easily disengage from a connection of which you claimed once possessed monumental importance. Honorable relationships are not something to be extricated from. Say you're a cop who wants to turn in your badge to go pursue your truest dream of accounting. You don't turn it in, cry, claim ultimate appreciation and loyalty to your memories with the force then ride out down the street, a few weeks later to start working for the force a county over as their new accountant, rubbing shoulders with the old, ex-nemesis (by association) crew. There is a choice, always, to honor a past with someone (friend, family, love, work) or to weaken the currency of what made those defining moments so particular and unique through painting over them in a discrediting way.

Now look, I get it. I get the whole past is the past, future is the future, today is the day to eat the bread and tell someone they're beautiful. And homegirl is not about past dwelling. But there is something to be said about those that can set aside what once looked like fully lived-in, unconscious, blinding, open love to slide right back into intimacy versus those that do what they can to properly and independently obsess over memories, gained insight, intricacies of smells and sweatshirts and specificity of laughter in order to truly honor that human being that you shared life's pie with as the whole, entirety of person that you once affirmed that they were, in the very least, in relationship to you.

I've hung out with two Sagittarius men in my past year of life. Both strangers. The first informed me of his dating history. The detail in which he recanted the lines and curves of the exe's personality, time spent with, downfall, and divine, as well as otherworldly moments shared, filled me up. There was something pure about it, especially when he described the one that was clearly most special to him. They were together for a year, him and his first love. He followed that year surfing and nothing but on a foreign island that he ran away to in order to escape her images and place association in his mind. But he told me it was years before he was mentally checked out from the relationship. The second guy described the depth of his love for his ex with a fluidity that made me wonder, just for a moment, if there really was someone out there who could stare into Ann Coulter's eyes and care for her. Regardless, being around these dudes sharing such information with me showed me that when someone truly invests in living fully while sharing life with you, there will be an ultimate respect and honor that can not be escaped. It is not something that can easily be wiped out, traded in for, or burned over top of the initial song.

The truth is, I loved someone and he loved me. Cis relationship commiseration right? Sooooo unique. He moved on and I feel left stripped of self, nude and colorless, forced into shedding a coat that I need to stay warm. In the cold, I am learning too much about myself too quickly. I feel punished through karma's violent assaults, and also shame in the harm I've caused while projecting my pain onto my love. My pain sourced from heavy, pushing pressure of growth. We both had that pain. Differently, at different times. Light, short breaths could be heard in the silence between one another. The fear of wanting different things amidst the ravaging, passionate co-dependence we had cultivated between eyelash memorization and pheromone chemistry seemed so impossible that it be better to hold our breaths between one another in refusal of acknowledging the silence, or allowing the moment to move forward, or the cells in our bodies to take note through establishing breath, which just might establish the consciousness of the most terrifying notion, the reality of distance. I lack the emotional strength to accept the mountain of effort I now must denote to working through my past so that I may phoenix into my future. Right now. This is momentary. Fleeting. Time heals. And for many of us, only time. I need more. Until then, I am left with perspectives I have to choose to protect my sensitive, shattered, shame-filled heart. I choose to see him as basic, and her as well. To move on so quickly from a love like mine, is his right as a human, as a lover, as a person more deserving of wild experience and eternal love than anyone I've ever known, or sometimes I fear, might ever know. But still, from me? There is nothing more basic.