Is there such thing as an enjoyable tragedy?
Since my meeting with The Doctor, texts full of tension and yearning have been passing between us. He wants to see me again, as soon as he can. He is switching his schedule. Trying to slot me into his already-brimming life. I am sat at my desk unable to concentrate on anything except the familiar ache in my chest.
New love, in all it's forms, is truly addictive. But I think perhaps the promise of love is more addictive still. After all, post-exposition, the object of your affection becomes tangible. A living, breathing, burping person. But before, oh before! They are the white wall onto which you project all your hopes and desires for what love can and might be.
I used to avoid using that word when talking about my lovers. Treat it like a weight, rather than a release. But the truth is, when you are crushing, when you are infatuated with someone to whatever degree, that is love. A seed, maybe. A speck. But still it comes from the same giddy place.
The promise of The Doctor is kicking inside me. Waiting for the day when I can sit smugly at my desk and bang out on these keys "I fucked him! It is done, and I am happy!". But there is an exquisite kind of happiness in this torturous limbo. Perhaps because I know that, however long it takes, this feels like a sure thing.
And as we know, sure things are hard to find.