Sitting on the back rest of a pockmarked wooden bench at the corner of Maisonneuve and Mackay, the intoxicating taste of cigarette smoke and my already lukewarm Franglais Timmy's pleasantly mingling and lingering on my taste buds, I people-watch while the wind ruffles and plays with my short, spiky hair. A forgotten and abandoned newspaper flutters underneath my feet, rolling and undulating in its own sort of solitary dance even though it has been deserted by its disrespectful reader. The sound of a passing security guard's jangling keys reaches my ears, competing with the underlying and low-droning noise of nearby construction work and the intermittent honks made by jaded and impatient drivers. Students scurry by, some tightly clutching their books to their chests as though the bound pieces of transformed dead trees are life buoys amidst the sea of knowledge in which these poor souls are threading water, others confidently stroll along, a mixed perfume of arrogance and contempt trailing behind them as they make their righteous way to class. A bearded and turbaned man accompanied by his friends walks closely by me; he unabashedly looks towards the opening of my shirt, his eyes remain fixated at my barely visible cleavage for a while as I glare at his face, willing him to look me in the eyes rather than at the apparently more interesting area below my chin and neck. I glance back towards the lonely and discarded newspaper, ignoring the man fascinated with my breasts, and let the flood of questions and queries invade my mind.
In today's individualistic and narcissistic modern world, is it so difficult to find someone with whom you can truly be yourself, without any second-guessing or doubts? A person who thinks about you with a dreamy smile plastered upon his face as he pictures you while at school, work or elsewhere. Someone who recognizes your quirkiness and yet loves you for it anyways. An individual who sees your worth and value as though you are a treasure he would risk everything to safeguard and protect. A man with whom you can share your insecurities and fears and who can do the same with you. A man who is not afraid to invest in you and what the two of you are creating and building together, much like a savvy businessman stakes his fortune on an unknown shareholding company despite the fact that the stock market is an unreliable beast. A man who respects, admires and worships you despite, or even because of, all your supposed faults and is unafraid to address these with you. A man who believes in the follies of initial love and trusts the slow and steady development of even deeper feelings.
How is it that I can give myself 100% to anyone who gives me 50% or less, giving him my heart and trust almost at the initial hello? The subconscious monologue within my head sounding something like this: "Well, hello there sir, here is my heart," as I rip it out of my chest, still beating, and hand it to him unceremoniously while it drips blood onto the floor, "Do what you'd like with it, but please do return it bruised, broken and cracked once you are done so that I may give it, damaged, to someone else." Is this a deficiency on my part? To trust and expect that people will treat me the way I treat them? To want to make the recipient of my attention feel like a million bucks when he is making me feel like the equivalent of a Toonie or less?
And when I am alone, sitting on the first step of my gallery while pondering the great meaning of life, where is this contempt for myself stemming from like a weed in full bloom, beautiful in its ugliness within a garden of lilies? From which place within my psyche is this anger, frustration, bitterness, hostility and anxiety brimming and bubbling over the edges like a Black Velvet stirred too quickly, spewing and spilling over the rim of its tall, thick glass onto the sticky wooden table that has felt way too much disgorged liquids upon its lacquered surface? When I look in the mirror, who is this fuzzy peach-headed, funkily accessorized and pierced nosed woman staring back with mascaraed and slightly blood-shot eyes? Why am I able to transform my exterior shell so easily, letting go of the good, cutesy girl look for a more edgy and rocker chick image, shedding my old physical self like a snake discards its skin and slithers away stealthily? How is it that I can barely scratch and skim the surface of what is going on within my heart and head? Am I toughening my look in the hopes that my heart will follow suit and become less prone to fragility and vulnerability?
Why am I always reaching out rather than in? Letting my tentacled emotions latch onto others, squid-like, suffocating them and dragging them down into the unknown and as yet undiscovered depths of my ocean self? Why do I keep trying, again and again and again... when will it be enough? Even when I confidently say that I am not trying, looking or seeking, I end up making the first move, smiling the first smile, texting the first message, typing the first words in a chat session, making a suggestion for drinks or downright inviting... and then I end up feeling defeated when my appeals are rebuffed, ignored or taken lightly.
I just want to find my star...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQxPWT-ifyI
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