Many Million Dreams Ago • Ch. 1 of 10
The Chapter’s Song:
“At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.” -Plato
Our world is made for soulmates. The stars in the sky exist so we can use them to spell out their names—, a what is to come by starlight, the moon so we can use its shine to barely make out their faces—, a what is by moonlight, and the sun to show us who they really were—, a what was by sunlight. Who could merit such magnificent things but The Lover? A person’s other half that reminds them they are in-fact, incomplete. Who could bring a being to take blades to their once-porcelain skin and rip it apart at the seams but those that did it themselves first? Who could make this planet seem uninhabitable any longer without them by our sides? Soulmates are powerful. They have energy we didn’t know existed. And still—, we are drawn to their scent like moths to a flame. We burn and bleed with ecstasy.
The paradox is simple; live out a lifetime’s worth of emotion in a much shorter span. Such a relationship rarely lasts forever, so we must relish the moments we are given with glee. One remains another’s other half only until the real world pulls them apart once more and again—, they are left in two, only to find another half, in someone else. The cycle repeats but as promised by fate, we all eventually settle for second best and begin to lose sight of something more permanent. So close to restoration. So far from perfect. Prior to truly understanding what sacrificing oneself for someone else really meant, I’d gotten close to something special a couple of different times. Everyone has a beginning—, mine is much like many others’.
My first real crush also happened to be my first real kiss. She was bohemian-chic and beyond sharp. Our friends’ circles began overlapping so there we’d stand—, out in the parking lots and underneath our school’s gigantic arch; loitering, liking each other’s music, and making each other laugh. We’d gotten closer over the course of our freshman year of high school and when we’d found out that we lived a mere mile away from each other, the attraction naturally blossomed into something a bit more advanced. I’d wait until well after midnight to leave through my front door and skate up the street towards her house in another neighborhood. We’d talk and talk and all the while, want to go further though neither of us ever had the courage to make any type of move.
“What’re you doing?,” my mom asked from her bedroom doorway one night. I hadn’t noticed she’d woken up and saw me putting on my shirt and jeans to leave.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” I said. She didn’t buy it, so I had to confess as to why I was leaving, where I was going, and who I was going to see. She saw the expression of excitement on my face, so she said what only my mom would say in such a scenario.
“Come on, I’ll drive you.” We arrived in my crush’s complex at what must’ve been a very late hour. I got out and walked through the dark neighborhood with confidence. I didn’t know what I’d say, how I should act, or that I’d even be brave enough to kiss her this time around. All of the butterflies in my stomach stormed my insides together and I felt a special type of nervousness for the first time in my life.
I arrived at her house on the right and walked up the driveway to her window. I was about to whisper out her name when the front door slowly opened and there she stood—, long brown hair and probably a band tee-shirt on.
“Hey,” she quietly said, walking down the front cement steps towards me. There we stood for a minute before each taking a seat on the freezing pavement below. We spoke and spoke until we finally kissed on a cold night in March, marking the start of our short-lived courtship.
Those were the types of moments which helped shape and guide me towards what my future understanding of love would become. I knew to cherish such memories—, to not allow the everyday routine put them on the back-burners of my mind and just have them sit there, collecting dust.
Amongst an array of others, I’ve had three serious loves in my own life. Every five years since turning eighteen, I’ve allowed my heart to harmonize with another on a deeper level. Firstly, The Girl with the Dark Eyes taught me about passion; what I should feel—, secondly, The Girl with the Epic Tattoos about maturity; when I should feel it—, and thirdly, The Girl with the Gorgeous Smile about wisdom; how I should feel about it once it’s gone. Each showed me a side of myself that I hadn’t known existed before.
The three had hair made of long, jet-black waves and short, brownish curls—, eyes of deep hazel and light honey—, lips of lusciousness and cherry drops. They wore tattered shell-tops and open-toe wedges—, spoke softly, assertively, enthusiastically—, looked dark, daring, and coy.
Dive with me into a story wrought with a blizzard of best-friendships gone awry, anger misplaced at the feet of familiar faces, and self-loathing the length of a horizon that ultimately leads to utter destruction. While it’s got my name written all over it, I realize how I’m still on my own journey and that’s enough to keep me going towards another day, another dream, another Lover whose eyes I have yet to lose myself in.