Although this was said in jest, it didn’t seem so painful to me when my Philosophy professor said that when the Other does not affirm your existence (ie: “you’re dead to me”), you basically do not exist to him or her. You are not part of the circle he’s involved in, the lifemap he’s constructed in, and so on and so far. What’s his is his and what’s mine is mine. And it’s terrible enough to think that the subtle glances you throw me (I assume with my whole heart, give me this) and your sweet, sweet smile makes the whole of me soar, soar as high as the metaphors bring me. Is it because I like you, or the thought of you?
Whenever I see you close by, I sense a vibrance of familiarity course through me, as if I’ve known you for quite some time–even if no words were exchanged, no stories were shared. But whenever I hear stories about you or when you look my way for three whole seconds, I breathe in the reality of our strangeness. You and I, we are absolute Others. Have I really only seen you in your light, or my light? There’s a difference.
This, this whole thing goes just beyond the facade I’ve fallen in love with. This whole thing goes beyond the facade I’ve put for myself, the front I’ve bound myself to get hooked on. This is more than facades. This is more than what I see. It’s what beyond I sense: you.
I count the hours until this all ends, when you will only be “one of those guys” who I’ve met in this lifetime. You will continue to live your own reality as I will do mine. Sadly, I don’t think I’ll ever get to know the you behind the face I have yet to call home? Sad to know that I won’t know you beyond what I have captured you into my reality. Who are you, really? Who are you to me? And I don’t say this with any tone of possession or desperate clamor–no, not at all–because you hold someone else’s heart in your hands. Who are you to me?
Who are you without me?