It's true to say that there is an intellectual gap between me and most of the men in my life. Intellectual and cultural. I have adjusted to that from an early age. I don't profess to be a genius or some cultural fiend. Far from it. It is simply that 'I like what I like'. Ultimately, I gravitate towards those things. It's likely that I won't disclose my 'true' self to you until I fathom you out first. Will you make fun of me because I adore Callas? Will you laugh derisively because I scour Youtube for her oldest existing recordings? Will you scoff that I translate each heart-wrenching Italian word she sings because I want to understand every syllable and it frustrates me not to know? Will you snigger if I cry over characters in a book? Will you listen to me pontificate about Charles Jencks and his incredible skill at creating beauty in a land that has been raped? Will you let me curl up on your lap like a kitten and watch documentaries about Art Nouveau with me? Maybe you won't be interested in it. But will you do it because you just want to be close to me? Will you buy me bookmarks for my birthday? Will you share my bed with both me and the latest books I'm reading? Will you kiss me on the forehead when I'm lost in a film, and I don't answer your questions. Will you rant that I have spent a ridiculous amount of money on an authentic Cuckoo Clock from the Black Forest? Or will you hold me in your arms and smile as the turning dancers pirouette, at the pinnacle of every hour?
I have come to realise that, at times I am forced to swap intelligent conversation for periods of fun. Depending on my mood, I may happily do this. However, these relationships are destined to be short lived. Rooted in the superficial. This would be an unrealistic way to live. It's deceit, both to myself and to the other person. I know I would end up feeling bitter and resentful - ultimately my subconscious would pummel that relationship with Molotov Cocktails. I have no doubt.
I am accepted. I have no difficulty in cultivating friends. I have never been bullied. I have always been a part of a close group of mates, and I know they love and cherish me. I look like them, in that generic 2012 kind of way. Wear my hair as they do. Buy the latest sorbet coloured skinnies and fake tan. I have a love of these things too. I want to look pretty. I love fashion, colours and new designs that spill from the catwalks of London Fashion Week and trickle into the High Street. But I am more than that.
My inner self - she peers at the dearth of quality men. Maybe my benchmark is set too high? Maybe I am searching for a replica of myself? I highly doubt it.
Any close friendships I have had with men have been the ones where I have allowed myself to discuss the kind of books I read or the movies I watch or some serious topic that I know 'he' possibly won't be able to comment on. I don't have to handle his ego with care, fragile thing that it is. In return he can teach me. Talk to me. Tell me about his travels. His thoughts. An interesting article he has read. He is not intimidated by me. He nurtures me. I shall then adore him until the ends of time.
This is why my friendship with Will worked for a time. I do take responsibility for having feelings for him, but for the second time this week, I am in a position to say that I stand by how I felt in those moments I refuse to deny any aspect of love I have ever felt for anyone, at any time, just to save face. I am nothing, if not true to my feelings.
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This Diary is becoming more and more personal to me. More and more important. Less about my relationships with others. It is picking up strength again and furiously digging into my core. Sometimes it hurts. Sometimes I revel in it. Sometimes It leaves me confused. Sometimes its as clear as a ringing bell.
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