Thoughts of Olympia
One gesture and a smile and I was smitten from the first. Smitten like a dead puppy tail-wagging in the afterlife up in cloud nine. Or should I say up in summit of Olympus where my dear dreams have left itself to be acclimated, far from my own control, deserting me at my most wildest moment of vulnerability? The hard kiss on my cheek is still very much fresh. Would that I could keep it as a glorious and everlasting memory. Memories are by nature going by two faces. One to stir sweet nostalgia, and the other to provoke eternal sorrow. Hence the reason why I bestowed my final memento of a bygone time to Olympia before I left. Such is a sad nature of my affairs, but how was she to know? To her I was as well a memory of a time when we chance met clashing charm against charm. How could I ever had taken this long to pursue this endeavour? How could I have lingered in a mistake for far too long that it could have easily slipped me by? It felt to me as if one of my foot was trapped between precipices while the other was shoved and stuck in my mouth for who knows how long.
So I feel such tragedy befalls me to almost have to bid adieu to my yesterweeks behind. New opportunities present itself which I have not myself built, but only accrued through effortless means, or, much worse, nepotism. I in truth am not built for too much a durability; I stutter, I quiver, I fall easily the first chance that comes. Last night could have been my swan song for Esprit, to whom I owe much of my few months-long survival in the urban and rural wilderness, where I had been left to fend for myself absent sympathy.
England had been mine, and now it owes me a living.
It was hard to let go of my short-term addiction towards Olympia. Struggling with the lowest expectation was hard enough for me to forgo, how much worse would higher expectations have been? Torturous, hellish. Total fucking enigma. Suffice to say, I should not expect anything, and yet it feel so goddamned incomplete. A glass half-full is still a glass half-empty, or so the cliché goes. Irony should ignite the ashes in mouth to learn this was the day I learned of her name. I submitted myself for my own peer review. Infatuation with her probably means just simply that. To go further than what it actually is as this stage in time would require more sustenance in my part to allow a space for breathing and nurturing. Plenty of patting to the back and to the sides and a swift slap to a cheek. But the distant echoes of her voice saying all the right words are deep trombones bouncing side to side through my soul. It strengthened not only what I desired so much of someone the more time was spent beside her, but also my expectations towards women in my life in general. Whereas the boundaries of a sustainable relationship in my current living space is all but muted save for a minor heres and theres, this one was special right at the moment of our first sight, and it was only until now that we have nurtured our first steps, months long after we have met and have even seen each other often since then. The only difference is that this was an important and necessary vis-a-vis interaction that we overall lacked out of the capacity of a mixture of mine own pusillanimity and indifference. Chance get I would make things proper and official. Nigh time to showcase to someone my intentions when I have never ever done this in all my long years in life. Fruitless years spent basking in figurative self-mutilation. angst, and dwelling too much and too long in regret, always preparing and cooking myself rare and leaving it dry, cold, and tasteless.
There were however many opportunities for me to consider. My options have now opened up quite a bit marred only were it not for the ultimate fear of the inconsolables. Even before Olympia, my foundation had always been firmly rooted towards strength in individuality. which is the only real thing I treasure more in life above all else.