She has a kindness I find hard to accept as real, even though there’s never been even the slightest proof that she isn’t genuinely this kind. She is kind without any disrespect to her own boundaries. She is overly willing to drive people around. This seems to be her way of showing people she cares. She isn’t much of a cook, so perhaps she would be cooking for everyone if she had any love for cooking. So she is a one woman taxi company and mover of furniture. And clearly also the go to person for a bunch of people who need to unburden themselves. Am not sure if she has a real saviour complex, but she has the inclination. At the same time she is introverted and claims to rarely share lots about herself with people.
She is a foodie. Possibly as a compensation for the sexual relief she denies herself or has – at present, unless something has changed- no access to. Possibly to experience some sensation.
She has mild narcissistic tendencies. Her neurotic tendencies are much more pronounced. She is a perfectionist. In part because contemporary culture creates women who are perfectionists and in part as a reaction to an addicted parent and parental pressure to perform in a materialistic sense. In part also because we live in a culture that measures a person’s worth only by their material success and their looks.
Although she could with some effort be a succesful instagram model, or in some other way make her looks pay off, she has chosen not to. Possibly out of insecurity, but much more likely because she honestly dislikes this superficiality. This does in no way mean that she doesn’t want to be attractive or that she does not greatly enjoys or desires to be deemed highly attractive. She does invest quite a bit of time in her looks.
Yet still there must be a drive for authenticity because she doesn’t cover herself in layers of make-up, does not use fake eye lashes or hair extensions. And though she might consider the finishing touches of plastic surgeon, she has so far not gone that path. So what to conclude? She simply values herself? She has good taste? She has a unique style? Whenever your very judgemental mind wants to categorize as superficial and overly young and excessively invested in her looks a list of valid reasons pops up that makes this impossible and entirely unfair.
She is generous and supportive. She hates unpredictable situations. She’s very much a control freak. She liked art, she IS art, but loves art, but does not produce art. Nothing will block a person more effectively from creating art than perfectionism. If she could let go it’s reasonable to assume she could write fairly moving poetry or make sensitive, half radiant half melancholic photographs. She couldn’t be an actress, because apparently she simply doesn’t act. She just is. This doesn’t mean she is conscious of her every drive. But if she doesn’t know everything about herself there is no planned cover up. She is not pretending to be something she is not. Some parts of her are truly hidden for herself, so she cannot be actively hiding anything. She doesn’t know what she is hiding. On some level there is the realization that she is repressed, and that she has it in her to give herself over to her passions, to her fire. She needs the absolute right circumstances for this and this is a lot to ask in today’s crazy, almost rudderless world.
She has a killer figure. As if designed by some alien team to wreck havoc on human males. Although she has insecurities, her presence as a whole is overwhelming, arresting, transfixing. She has some awareness of this effect, but not much.
From time to time she has trouble saying that she is flattered by something. She finds it flattering when it’s obvious she is needed at work, or needed by people around her. Sometimes she seems to dislike something that she is actually proud of. This isn’t false modesty. Just insecurity. And in this crazy, unhinged, psychologically grueling, uprooted world she has a below average number of insecurities. She may not always experience it that way, but she is more confident about herself and her womanhood than most women. Given how up until recently everything was set up to make a woman feel like she could never possibly be ever enough, that’s actually quite an oddity, a almost aberrant accomplishment. Possibly enabled by the consistent care of a loving mother and the narcissist pride of a materially succesful, kinda disciplined father (no matter how much she claims to hate him).
She doesn’t like it when I play the therapist and am hanging on her every word and examining her slightest bit of facial expression. Yet she can’t keep herself from smiling when am running my eyes over her and quaffing every drop of beauty I can get. To be fed now and to at least be fed for the coming days, when she won’t be around given her pinball machine rhythm.
She is conscious of her effect on me, but I don’t know to what extent. Or if it only flatters her or if it nurtures her. Of course I hope it nurtures her.
She’s seen as always in a good mood – she’s not – and optimistic and cheerful. She does have an Aries like ‘let’s catch the horizon’ attitude that rarely loses steam.
I look at her with fascination and desire when she is speedwalking and curiously unaware of her own scudding. Yet I look at her with with happiness and tenderness, when I feel she has finally slowed down and for a moment is not going anywhere. My head on her chest or her leg hooked over mine. I could cover her in kisses and never stop.
She has ambition and an enviable certainty that tomorrow will
be better, that the sky is truly the limit. She is rooted thanks to her family. The Eastern Mediteranean has the absolute lowest suicide rate in the world. One possible explanation is the importance of family. No matter how dysfunctional.
She sees herself as the human embodiment of the Ugly Duckling story. To be honest, she actually was beautiful even as a child. She probably doesn’t know the author of that story was born on the 2nd of April, just like she was. When I miss her too much I start googling whatever info even only remotely related to her in a fruitless attempt to bring her even half an imaginary milimeter closer to me. Moments when the intensity of the pain of missing her gets so shockingly bad that you start thinking the pain is now so big, so expansive that it might be keeping her from sleeping, perhaps not realizing what exactly is causing her insomnia. A pain so incisive that it feels like I am being flayed alive. So there is only pain left, and the only way to make it stop would be to have her here. In your arms preferably but just to see paint her nails on a chair next to you would make the pain stop as well.
She doesn’t want to you to be in pain and complete anathema to her is the thought that she in any way, no matter how unwittingly and unintentionally, is causing that pain if only by her absence.
She can have the effect of something like a whirlwind passing you. Physically you are entirely left unharmed, but emotionally you know that in that whirlwind lies the nutrition you have always craved and when it envelops and races past you so quickly you have only just managed to still your hunger for her for like an hour or so.
She likes to rub all kinds of oils and lotions and creams on her body. I doubt the necessity of this, but I greatly admire the drive for self-care.
Also amazing is that from time to time this galopping gazelle manages to sit still long enough to read a book.
It’s absurd that I could sit there and peruse War and Peace or The Brothers Karamazov and never be bored even for one second. To paraphrase PJ Harvey: ‘I can’t believe the world is so complex when I just wanna sit here and watch you relax’. I don’t know what it is about her face or body language or aura or whatever it is that brings an incomparable peace to my heart, a falling away of cramps eternally clutching my soul. If that sounds dramatic it’s because it bloody is. Who the hell needs art or any landscape on this planet or on any other if you can look at her? To go from her face to a Picasso or Durer or Whomever is to go from venison prepared in the most gourmand fashion to stale bread
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