Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be in love with someone who understands my very core and who touches every speck of my soul. Who has a parallel philosophy on art, politics, morals, nature… life. Whose soul was meant to mate with mine.
I would fearlessly throw out the pool of galaxy within me—philosophies, conspiracies, and dish on religion, and angry outbursts over human rights out of passionate justice. Fearlessly. Without the fear of ridicule or being shrugged off carelessly. How would it feel like to be inspired from each and every conversation, learn about each other and learn about our own galaxies within. There would only be earnesty, honesty, sincerity, wisdom, compassion, passion, fire, boom. A magnificent synergy.
He would be my Tate Langdon. He would be my Haku. He would be my Rochester, my Fitzgerald, my Gatsby, my Gil, “The One That Got Away.” He would be my Aseem, He would be my Craig, my Dave, my Sharon, my MaryBeth. He would be my god, I would be his goddess.
I feel like with him I could thrive in my own skin. He would free my essence, unlock the inner me. I’d be innocent about the world. I’d be so inspired. I’d return to my once idealistic, idyllic state of being.
Why does he have to be a He, I do not know. Maybe it could be a She. But literature so often depicts romance from admiration, inspiration, and camaraderie, that I feel compelled to call him a He. Now isn’t that a thousand times more romantic? Is it not fun to yearn for something impossible?
