Somos Novios

The impossible. Why do we dwell on it? I am more than guilty of this, this yearning for the impossible. Why do it? Why dwell? I have a chronic case. Some people do. It’s the most tragic thing- especially when something harvests what you perceive to be a possibility, and then you think on it all over again, only to realize it’s next to impossible, love is next to impossible. And you wish it wasn’t. And you’d like to know why it is, or why it feels impossible.

I wonder if I am the victim of what some romantics and Shakespeareans would call “unrequited love”. Sometimes I am certain. As sure as the moon can turn the tide, am I doting day and night. “Dreaming” is more like it. It is rather tragic.  I know I can get along just fine in this life, but I wonder how it would be different if the dream became a reality.  Is this a waste of time? the Italian words ’sempre novios’ come to mind. It’s melodic and confusing.

It’s how I find it hard to breathe upon seeing him, how my heart fills up with the butterflies and my knees buckle weak. How absolutely ridiculous. Could this be any more juvenile? How I wish I could be rational. Instead, I’m caught up in this little drama of my life. To me, everything is cinema about this. The music swells upon seeing him, the crowds part, the lighting is right, even when it isn’t… words are never superfluous. Everything is merely ambiguous, things left to be desired. It’s exhausting. And I wonder if this will come to pass. That is, the ambiguities. Or will I come to find in some impersonal cyber way that he has gone from being “single” to “in a relationship” one day and that I read all the signals wrong? I think this is more likely than anything else.  I’m sure it will be completely crushing as I’m sure I’m not the only one who has fallen for him, or ever will. Such is life, what is there to say?  I’d congratulate him and then what… pack a suitcase and buy a ticket to ride? Go somewhere to taste wine? write? walk peachstreet, from mixed drinks and techno beats.  I’d wonder where he’d be.

One of my favorite lines from cinema came from Hepburn’s Breakfast At Tiffany’s:

“People do belong to each other, because that’s the only chance anybody’s got for real happiness”

I wonder who’s the Holly Golightly. Maybe I’m just stuck in the sixties.

I’m already counting the days ’til the venture. He’ll be there. In Paris and in Rome, Luxembourg, too.  It will be something simple, too. It always is. It will be lovers at a table for two over looking the blue in Capri. It will be the red on the roses laying on some cafe chair, drenched in  french rain, coming down in sepia tones.  It will be the bridges of Budapest.  The bohemian streets of Prague and its dawn.  The aesthetic of lostness in Venice. Every step in Vienna. Buying paintings on the streets of beautiful Paris.

Solamente tu.

There’s no escaping the thought. Sounds merely obsessive, but it truly isn’t. It’s wanting to have someone to share the good with. Someone to help you realize it. Someone to remember it with you. Someone you can collect photographs with. Someone you can count the stars with. Someone who can show you faith. Something genuine. 

 Sometimes a girl just wants the impossible. E Sara’ A Settembre.