“We are earnest to explore and learn all things, but we require that all things be mysterious and unexplorable …”
― Henry David Thoreau
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The minute he told me he loves girls with short skirts, I knew, no matter how sweet my face is or how smart I am, he will never see me the way I want him to. Not that I can’t wear a short skirt, I probably can, but I think long skirts are much more alluring. Call me old-fashioned, but a woman doesn’t need to have all her skin out to look appealing. The shape of the body wrapped in a long, white summer dress, brushing the molecules of the sand under the sun and the reflections of palm trees in the sea, making a man wondering, somehow, makes much more sense to me.
Nevertheless, I had my moment of doubt and anxiety after the discovery, but I am still talking to him. Maybe because he challenges my mind in a way no one had for a long time; maybe because the smile on his face is like a soothing touch over my broken sparkles or maybe, I simply am not ready to let go of the muse I found in him.
He doesn’t say much, but then no real man usually does, just enough to answer my questions and to satisfy to a certain level my thirst; but he always leaves a door open for another question, for another message, for another conversation and this is enough to know he likes talking to me. I haven’t figured out why yet, but I think I don’t want to. All want is to know him better. Questions are bruising the surface on my lips and my fingertips are dying to flood the screen with words and get rid off of all the thoughts inside my confused head.
I want to know about his dreams and the colors of his heart, what makes him happy, angry, sad, blind with love; does he think of the moonlight, how he finds the words for his stories? I want to see him walking, talking to other people, other women, sleeping, having a shower or just a coffee in the morning before he drives to work. I want to ask him a million questions and I want him to ask me a million questions back … but I’m afraid that I will scare him if he finds how much I want. Or worse, he will give me what I want, he will flood back the screen with answers and will solve all the little mysteries occupying my brain right now.
And what if all questions find their answers, what if I end up alone, again, without a daydream to provoke my senses and keep me breathing? What if, with every answer, I see how ordinary a human he is and there is nothing sparkling in his short e-mails, nothing so sweet and dramatic in two people sharing the same sky across the oceans, through the plasma world of bits and bytes?
The Killers are singing their story about runaways, innocent souls catching the last glimpse of the summer wind and I am re-reading his last message, trying to find a meaning between the lines that doesn’t exist. And I know, I won’t ask him a question today, I won’t reveal how weak my heart is, not today! Today will forever remain mysterious and unexplainable, no question will find its answer, no illusion will be added to the pile of broken sparkles…
© 2012 Broken Sparkles