Half the time, it’s ego. Deceiving. Conniving. We meet someone that takes our breath away, we stall. How can it be that we’ve fallen in love? We hold back. Hold it all in. Convince ourselves that it is not love, and it can’t be that person. ‘That person’ is somewhere too fighting his own battle. He is swooning in love but he won’t admit it. And there you are, harbouring something so over filling, yet you won’t share. There he is too, his ego getting the better part of him. You are just friends, he reassures himself stoically. No one wants to go to the other. No one wants to cross the damn line to meet the other person halfway. The attraction is there, sizzling, pulling, tugging at your damned ego to take a pretty walk. The attraction charges unbounded through the chats you exchange day by day, as you strive to peel back layers separating one soul from the other. Question by question. Answer by answer.
So this is us.
We have found something mystical, me in him, him in me, and I’ll very much love to explore until there’s not a sheath of ‘un knowing-ness’ left between us. I know all it will take is a word. Two words maybe? Or more even, no one will murder us for its length or depth. I know. We need to talk. Do or say something suggestive, something showing will. Like ‘let’s give us a try’, or ‘how does you and me sound?’… ‘But no, it’s there. That pretty bastard called Ego. And it won’t budge, except maybe someone grows some balls to throw it out the damned door and go route for what the heart wants before it slips.
But would that be me? Or him? Someone had better lent me a damned excavator before I end up courting my pretty ego for life.
© The Short Black Girl, 2014.