What do you think it was that I thought when you opened the door and entertained the idea of aesthetic supremacy--of knowing a Platonic ideal through the witness of beauty? (It's nonsense, you know, what they say about Platonic love. "Selfless love" is neither selfless nor love. How flattering to say, "I derive no pleasure from loving you." Platonic "love"--a bastardization of the term--is more so a prison than an emotion, more so a self-imposed panopticon of shame.) But Plato may have been on to something he could not understand. (People who don't believe in the primacy of reality cannot comprehend its frighteningly beautiful complexity. You may ask anything of "philosophers" except that they admit what they see.) "Ideal forms" exist but not in some higher realm. (What higher realm exists besides that which I can achieve with my life?) Death is not a prerequisite for their attainment. But truth is. And ego. And happiness.
What do you think it was that I thought when you commented on my "looking great"--aside from my Payless shoes? It wasn't that I was the luckiest man in the Universe wearing cheap footwear--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that I was overwhelmed with happiness to be blessed with this evening--though it probably should have been. It wasn't that "love sometimes occurs without pain or misery." Or that "the idea of you is part of my mind; you influence my likes and dislikes, all my tastes, hundreds of times when I don't realize it." Or that "[a man] will always be attracted to the woman who reflects his deepest vision of himself, the woman whose surrender permits him to experience--or to fake--a sense of self-esteem."
What was it, then, that pervaded my senses--both physical and spider--when your hair draped your shoulders to hide them from undesired glances--as if there were such a thing--when your red dress refused, demanding eyes and everything they bring and everything they imply and everything you want them to bring and imply? (Like looking at a sculpture except that art represents the potentiality of man and you the reality. And the actual is much more exciting than the potential, let me tell you.)
I thought to myself, and no one else, that you deserved something tonight that I couldn't provide: a date. (There is something to be said for independence--something grand and profound and incredibly important. But your independence is not dependent on your relationship status on Facebook.) Every new year that passes with our celebration is one without your celebration. A travesty of told--though still unbelievable--proportions.
Don't think me an ingrate. Or a fool. Or whatever else you're thinking of me. Every moment I have the privilege of spending with you provides me incalculable happiness--pure, unadulterated, selfish happiness. "And you think it's not the same for me," you ask? "You are my friend and I love you." To which I reply: It's not the same. And you know it's not. (And I'm still not scolding you.)
And it's OK, your difference in experience. More than OK, even.
But it's also not something I want for you for/ever. "That's awfully selfish to want something for me? What if I don't want it?" The first hypothetical question invalidates the second. How's this for your double meaning: I want for you but I can't actually want for you--no more than I can breath or think or move for you, no more than I can make you want or give you permission.
You're allowed, killer. And you should take every advantage. I do. And I will continue.
How's that for scolding?