The woman of my dreams, in a manner of speaking.
| I don't know who I'm going to marry, when, where, or even if I'm going to marry. If I do, I have a girl in mind.
There is no specific girl, mind you. I don't pretend to know my own soulmate, but I know my own soul, and thus this.
The girl of my dreams could have any number and combination of attribustes. I don't really care how she's shaped or what color she is. I don't mind if she lives ten thousand miles away. I care about what she does to me.
Not what she does in bed. Her warmth and softness will be enough, though I might hope for more. No, what I mean is the effects she would have on me.
To think of her would bring me warmth. Knowing she exists would make the sun shine just a little brighter, the flowers open a little wider, the water just a little clearer. To lose her would be to weep tears of sorrow and to find her would be to weep tears of joy.
To me, she would be as a difiant red rose in an empty garden: the ultimate joy and sorrow would be in the picking.
When she smiled at me my heart would burn as the hottest flame , nad when he looked away my heart would churn as the greatest furnace.
Her touch would make me shiver.
Adventurous or reserved, kind or malevolent, I would see her soul as the unsurpassable perfection. Brilliant or slow, her mind would be the mightiest of computers. Grotesque or beautiful, to me she would be second not even to Aphrodite herself.
Her voice would make me pulse and quiver, yearn evermore for another breath from between those lips.
I might have met her already. In the dark, ancient recesses of my memory, I remember meeting a girl. She had brown hair. She loved a small yellow stuffed rabbit that I hope will someday be Real, if it has not become so already. These are all but one of the memories left to me, those that link to this girl. But I remember one other thing. I remember how she made me feel. I felt a stirring inside of me, a warmth, a power, a joy. I longed to see her, lived day to day thinking only of her.
And then she moved away. I cried in tearless sorrow, filling oceans inside my mind. I wept in motionless silence for five years.
I have been stabbed, beaten, cut, and broken. I have been pushed to collapse. More than once I have felt the heady darkness of death slip around my heart. None of it is pain equal to that which I felt in her absense. As time went on, I began to forget. Slowly, details began to slip away as I watched helplessly. I forgot her shape, her actions, her color. I forgot her soul, the experiences that make her unique; her personality. One day I woke up and spent an hour staring at the ceiling, feeling deep weight in my chest; I had forgotten even her face. I have forgotten how she wore her hair. I have only the memory of myself remembering that it was brown, though what I meant by "brown" will evade me until...until I see her again.
I remember the stuffed animal she loved since infancy. Small, yellow, with a pink nose. I don't truly know what animal it was. the limbs were sewn straight across, giving them a silly, floppy motion. It is the disability of my mind that I remember her doll more than her.
I almost remember holding the plush creature, but the memory is hazy and I may even have only dreamt it.
I don't know if she was the one. I may never know; I may never meet her again. I hope I do. Even to know that she is for some other man would bring some closure, but I request to much from fate, I think.
If I had a wish that could be anything--trillions of dollars, spaceships, harems--I would choose love. Doctors cannot heal my hurt, no matter how expensive they be. gleeful exuberance is but a passing fancy to the powerful warmth of love. Sex becomes pitiful excercise once one has known the coupling of two souls.
And to you, the one I seek, should you read this: I hope something in my words finds you, that you would seek me out. I am looking for you. come hell or high water I will find you. distance means nothing.