karamea

We're at the top of the West Coast. I've never been here before.

Last night being a de ja vu of 10 years and one month earlier - strange humanoid shapes in the sand this morning. A full metallic moon arching over the vicious waves. Short shorts that do nothing to keep the sand from the creases of my skin. With an almost/not-stranger and much more self-awareness, more assertiveness. Still a healthy dose of youthful naivety. Running away in order to arrive home. Your friend inadvertently tagging along. Jumping in when it's cold. Walking towards bonfires (real and imagined). History repeats.

And actually, there was the start of the words. Not the very start, but the conscious beginning. Deciding to write. The first of what would morph into hundreds of moments inscribed, thousands of secrets etched. It began with a list. How very pedantic.

Not a list of things he finds difficult about me (which could include: the destination; mumbling; refusing to say "pardon?"; speaking cryptically; slapping; being forgetful / taking for granted) - but a list of self-improvement to-dos. Similar but not the same to those existing in my head now.

... You keep referring to a future. Maybe ours. You're worried - but for yourself, not for us. "I hope you don't become sick of me." I find that peculiar. I've always needed the ones I can't quite figure out. I'm not sure if this is problematic. It's probably self-sabotaging.

Maybe that's why the other, for all his honesty, doesn't quite sit right. So beautifully transparent in his goodness.

But then, glimpses of the palimpsest himself. In which I see a self-certain mystique that I like. Maybe it's his elusiveness that is elusive.