rodnaia

Rushina says that Pisces are patient ones - that we can see something out. I'm feeling more confident with time - although I do sometimes want to check the astrology book again on how the stars line up for me and this man I live with. We are strangers living together I think - I often feel like he does not know me, not in any deep sense, but that on the practical side of things, we perform magic for each other; he has given me a home away from home, with comfort, support, a starting place to establish my own niche as photographer/DJ/slash interested young person, I stand on his platform of friends, of high culture, and I jump from a higher stone. And I give him - - - what do I give him? he has me to wrap his arms around at night, to unload his dissatisfactions with the professional music world in Russia, to drive around with, cursing out all the other incompitent drivers, to eat out with, to cook beautiful meals for, to pull close to the hip when greeting people on the street, to amaze with his dedication, patience, and unending affection. But I do want to see the books on the stars - I want it to elucidate why we are only a temporary fixture - how we bring the best and the worst out of each other and are fated to one day shake hands and walk in different directions. I like the present moment; it asks so many questions and offers only half-ass answers. It opens strange doors and closes others. At the present, we are perhaps miles apart - at least my backwards leaning heart tells me so. I feel it all the time, everyday and most poignantly in the night - he falls into a comatose sleep and I often lay awake why he doesn't feel this horrible sensation of being incomplete, wondering how he can feel whole in all of this, why he doesn't long for late-night conversations, for lying under the sheets in embrace, for something a little slower, for occasional classical music, music that isn't dance-able, for something a little slower, for my unspoken thoughts. He often wakes up when I leaving the room for the bed in the next room, his limp arm awakens and holds me back. And this is pleasant - that he wants me there in his sleeping embrace.

But I know I suffer from a longing for something that was more complete, more rodnaia. Is it a false nostalgia for an unrecoverable past? Or can I believe in this thing I called love and hope to ressurect it in its perfect, innocent form? I recycle it everyday in my thoughts, in the firm belief that it will greet me again in later years - in the sweetness of a boys hands, in his endless curiousity, his questions and sidelong glance. His slowness. Depth. His music and thoughts. And his heart. pristine. There is something more complete isn't there? And it's not that I don't love this beautiful man who wraps his arms around me - but the fact he doesn't feel imcomplete, that he is satiated with it - I can love him from afar, a beautiful thing - so gracious, but something strikes me inside as empty. empty pipes. no, there are often no fireworks in the heart. and it is in the touch - sometimes altogether lacking. limp. there are dead kisses and a hand on my breast that feels so love-less and brutal. he is in my heart but he often fails to ring it when we are face to face. i want to know him better, i wondered if it was a failure to communicate because of a language barrier, that words do not have the natural flow they have between two native speakers of the same language; that maybe this feeling of really knowing someone, of feeling close to their heart, like a volcanoe that daily erupts and pours hot lava over the chest, that this feeling would come with time, with more words. but i think maybe we are just miles apart and i accept this and i still keep him there, in my heart. but i am forever looking in the side mirror. seeing if there is something else - something closer than it appears.