Who I was at 21, who most of us were at 21, I wouldn’t want to know. Who I was at 23 was more aware, but still willing to absolve myself of ignorance and absorption. It wasn’t until I was 25 that I emerged fully formed but with wings still wet. But at 21, there was someone who thought I was worth knowing. Someone I didn’t want to know at 18, but that 21st year, my 22nd year of life, I became drunk on him. I’m still imbibing. Still wasted. Still wanting. Still loving. Counting the years. Fractioning the centuries.
We’re incredibly insular, like an island. When we’re together we can’t see beyond one another. We’re drawn together across rooms and through crowds only partially listening to the people in front of us. And when we leave, the car is full of jokes. Wondering why we ever agreed to keep company with mere mortals when we have one another. We promise to never make that mistake again, and these days, we rarely do. Truthfully, the best way to know us is separate and apart if you want to know us at all.
I imagine—I know so much of that insularity was born of circumstance. Living together in a small space in a foreign country where only one of us spoke the language. Everything about our bond was heightened. We’ve seen the world together. Shared it. And with him, the horizon is infinite. If he could he’d take me on a magic carpet ride, he would. I know because he’s told me so in whispers during the lows and the highs. It really is a love that’s got no limits and it makes me feel like the girl who has everything.
These are my my confessions, but make no mistake, it wasn’t the month that inspired them. This month of contrived, capitalist confection and affection. I was inspired by Summer Walker’s “Wasted.” She knows the risks of love. She sings of them, and despite her age, I believe she’s lived them. Many of us have suffered the consequences of love lost, but when the gamble pays off it pays off. Sometimes you have to listen to your heart. Let it decide. And you’ll know you’ve won, when that someone shows you what you’ve been missing.
How I like my relationships is how I like my books. I want the author to take me wonder by wonder. This year, I’ve become wasted on the stories I’ve read and just keep imbibing. It’s a welcome feeling compared to 2018’s wasteland. I’m feeling so good that I’m taking a chance on queens and courtly intrigue. What can I say? I don’t hate it. You might even say I like it.
FYI: How many songs did it take to make this post?