Monday, May. 10, 2004 @ 11:20 pm
The Whistler Weekend
I am brilliant in the night, on that bench, at the top of the stairs. Theories and concepts brew in my mind - a slurry of psychology, evolution and THC. It's so clear in my head but I can't explain it properly, and he sits there staring at me.
He listens to me. Everyone else just talks about themselves. Sometimes they ask about me but really they're just opening up the conversation to something that they want to talk about; they're just waiting for me to finish so that they can start talking again.
He helps me to search for the root of my issues but I get stuck and can't tell him something. Are you ashamed of something? And I sit there not able to look at him, not able to speak, the sky revolves and leaves tumble by. Not yet. I can't.
The weekend was a binge of biking and alcohol. Sock tan lines, bleeding shins, 20 cent wings, pitchers and pitchers of microbrew, the hot tub.
You're beautiful he says over and over. Why do you still like me, after all I've ever said? Because you are you. You are Shannon. I can't explain it any other way except to say that you are Shannon.
I am me. He sees me. I sublime before him, my invisibility solidifying into his definition of beautiful. Solid, he gives me strength, with him I was solid and willful and straightlaced can-do. I love him intensely.
Working the ladders in the forest, tipping off the ramps, feet snap out of the spuds into the slick muddy slope. Strong, be strong, look ahead, keep your balance. He is reassurance, that is all. Reassurance.