Like a widower, like a prisoner, like a child new to an orphanage, the man who splits with his lover is expected to sustain an extended season of mourning–of mourning and reverence and soberness. He will be watched, his next actions weighed and measured. Determining just how soon to re-enter the fray, is tricky.
There is no uncomplicated way to explain the echoing loneliness, the cavernous absence, the awkward near-daily status updates on their better halves life developments. At a time when his most intimate moments should be spent with his ex, the last thing anyone suspects is that he’s calculating the appropriate time to get back Out There.
Out There, with its speed dates and hookups and earnest longterm courtships, is no longer his scene–or if he is me, it never was. If he is me, he is practically hermetic. He doesn’t know to meet people. Regardless, an unbidden desire to meet them has risen, like decomposing Lazarus improbably exiting his tomb.
He knows there is a link between this pining and his heart’s recently enlarged capacity for love. Love is emanating from his pores. He needs a reservoir for the runoff; a container for the excess; someone who makes more sense within the context of a world that has reimagined him as someone’s “something”.
If the hunt was a house of mirrors before, filled with twisted images of himself and the possible suitors, dating long-distance is a house of cards, full of false starts and toppled attempts to balance a new identity with an old one.
What can he offer a prospective interest, other than fond text messages, or the slivers of face time per day that he can call on Skype?
It is impractical to desire a garden he has no space or time to tend. But what is life without the wildness of flowers, the sweetness of fruit, the lushness and full spice of herbs? And what will he do with the love overflowing these buckets, if not use it to water a series of promising seeds?
His season of mourning has ended. A partner is not so readily implied of someone miles away - nothing more than a face staring back, from the blue light of someone’s computer screen.
Now, the wind has turned. The soil will yield to tilling.
its funny how we live in a world where we are able to connected and communicate more easily than ever before - yet i feel more isolated and alone than ever before …