Watching A Very British Romance documentary with the adorable and quite capable presenter Lucy Worsley and this is impacting my mind as you will see below. I learned about Pamela (or Virtue Rewarded), which I had certainly heard of, but not how much it had changed the landscape of literature. I never fully grasped Samuel Richardson as a key player in the same way that Austen was, so it was interesting to see it framed so. Completely enjoyable and I shall be putting the third one on – modern romance – once I finish up my holy obligations here.
Feeling a bit winded and worn in the sort of way that one sleep might not improve. Feeling a bit exhausted in the bones. The day was okay. The weight I lost is not truly lost yet. I am petrified about forgetting shit, but here we are, facing Wednesday, and the fact that things are going to have to be alright regardless of whether or not we know how to make them so.
I am also a bit keen to have my conversation. I need just a bit of a moment to understand this. I can’t…wait forever. Everyone reminds me I can’t wait forever. All of the historical romance documentary tells me so. And if the hold up is simply not being understood, well, that’s something I can effectuate change around (there’s the corporate world beginning to slip into my vocabulary.)
Because I am thinking about the RP’er again. I can’t help it. I’ve glanced back at those final, closing emails. The ones that said the door was open. A door I’ve shut because I thought that I was starting something legitimate and and tangible and sincere. And it is those things – in one sense. On some days. I can’t help but wonder if regardless of what either J. or I want, there’s no feasible way for us to have this happen. The distance too great, the issues too large. The height distance notwithstanding. If he doesn’t want to figure out how to see me, if he doesn’t want to say it, if he doesn’t want this to check that box. If that’s how he sees it, then why am I not available to other people even in limited ways?
I don’t know. I am so willing, but I lean forward and he pulls back. Then I have thoughts like this, thoughts that question whether or not I am just some Mary Haskell-type figure, worrying over and wanting to help him and support him rather than a true fount of flourishing romance. Though, who am I to say what Mary Haskell and Khalil Gibran were really truly all about.
Still. I…this halfway ain’t enough. But is it halfway forever or just halfway and all I have to do or say is that I need more and I’d have more? But I’ve asked and the feeling was quash it, kill it, suffocate it. Maybe that’s not what was intended. That’s what I’m supposed to do – find out what was intended.