Loves

Each time I have lived something different. Falling in love, for me, is akin to growth, to forward motion. My type? I doubt I have one. The one prerequisite is an openness in which I can lay my soul for a while, a heart that will love me while I try my new self out for size. I suppose the one common thread has been me.

I re-read a few of my old journals, the ones I always start at the beginning of a new affair, and put away, mostly blank a few weeks later when the heady experience has mellowed. At every start, I saw the same dear qualities in all my men. I wanted them because I felt they accepted me wholly, because they did not judge me or try to define me, because they loved me and desired me. In hindsight, I realize most of this was illusion.

So what did I love? I think that because I wanted to love so much, I entered each new story with such amorous vigor and imagination that I must have been slightly overwhelming, and because I absolutely believed in their perfection, I gave all of myself without restraint. In the end, they probably did not understand me enough to show it, and I accepted the muteness as proof of their loves infallibility.

And then, there were the changes I allowed myself to make to diminish resistance, to blend into their lives. The little lies I lived to grow into their hearts. I wore masks over myself to minimize the chances of them rejecting me. It is not as if I regret any of those new personalities I adopted. Far from. I believe I chose each of my loves because I wanted to live my life for a while as the person they inspired. It helped me understand myself a little more.

One day I remember making a wish to live many lives, have many different experiences – and I do believe my style of loving gives me that chance. Of course, it means that I have to move on, and every time I outgrow my experience, I bid my farewells, and rarely look back. I grow through my heart, and for that I thank all of my loves.