Psapphirical

I saw McKinley again today.  We had lunch and then talked for about five hours before she suddenly realised she was late to work and had to rush off.

Ah man.  She is still so, so beautiful.  I still love spending time with her and just watching her talk and laugh.  But I think I have some closure.  And that is a very good thing.

She remembered to bring the book that she told me about and which I said I wanted to borrow like six months ago.  I was happy that she remembered, because I was beginning to write that book off as something I'd never get to read (it's out of print and rather hard to find).  So yay book. 

It turns out that she is now back together with the ex, Oliver, who she had been pining over when we first met and started dating.  I said congratulations.  I think I mostly mean it.  I am certainly happy for her, if not for Oliver.

I think I've also finally accepted that she is probably too free spirited for me, as a long term relationship option.  It's a quality that I find incredibly attractive, because it's so much the opposite of how I normally operate.  I am a planner, and an organiser, and I like stability.  She is someone who is not bound by responsibility or the material things of the world, who is happy to go where life takes her, and finds freedom in poverty.  I want to own my own home one day and do the whole family thing, if possible.  She finds a mortgage to be too much like a prison.  It would never work.  But, given the chance, I think I would still like to drift with her a while, if I could.  I know, I'm dreaming.

Anyway.  She is back together with her ex.  We had good friendship!talks.  Her parting words, as she ran for her tram, was that we should catch up again soon.  I also told her at some point today that cycling to Collingwood/Abbotsford is not an overly difficult thing to do.  So maybe I will cycle there one day and we can have smashed avocado at the breakfast place near her house that has the best smashed avocado in Melbourne.  We have been playing Words With Friends and Facebook messaging each other about Hemingway and cats. 

This is a better place than before.

Mostly... mostly I'm just glad to see her again.

Can the yearning for something ever become so heavy, so powerful as to transcend the limited realities of this world, and make the wished for, longed for, ached for exist again? And what if it never really existed at all?

Do you make the gods true simply because you believe in them? Do stories become reality simply because you told them? And if you tell it a thousand times, does it make the story any more true? The neurons travelled the path of that narration so many times, that what was pure imagination has now become memory.

And if it did exist, but is no longer here, then where does it now reside? I imagine the vacuum of eternity, far too empty and far to cold.  It is held in the physics of yearning, hung in space, and stretched across time. And in that universe, the wishing is hydrogen, the wanting, helium, and longing is the fusion that fuels the stars. The hard iron ache will never go away. Supernova breakdowns will pepper the vast expanses with platinum shrapnel. And in all the many worlds that arise, carbon memory leaves its mark; filling your mouth with ashes, blinding your eyes with diamond tears.