I caught the travel bug when I was in middle school, when our French teacher Ms. Paoli organized a trip to Paris in eighth grade, sans parents. I began to travel a lot after that — and never stopped. I now realize I was the girlfriend who left for long-term adventures abroad — to FranceContinue reading “Lost, found”
We met in London again in the summer, and made a journey to beautiful Cornwall. It was then that I realized this something was, in fact, a relationship. And how — despite parting ways once again, flying to opposite sides of the world, and resuming our romance on GMail, Skype, WhatsApp, and Twitter — I was the happiest I’d ever been.
Since the day I got married, I’ve changed my name on various profiles online and begun to sign my new name on documents and checks. As I mentioned in my last post, changing my name is a big step, and because I sit in front of a computer screen for most of the day, with my various profiles staring back at me, I’m constantly reminded of this change.
But I no longer have to rely on looking outward, into a sea of pixels, to sustain this particular relationship in my life. It’s interesting to feel this layer of my Internet now inside my home, absorbing into me, into him, into us. Two planes initially distinct, merging over the course of a year-and-a-half, now intertwining.
But my curation of my own history—the deleting of previous status updates, the “featuring” of particular posts—is strange. More so than before, I am able to highlight what is important in my life—or what I want others to view as important—and fill in missing details from today to when I was born.
But there was a drawn-out moment—one that lasted years, for as long as we all swirled together, nourished through the music and the substances. The partying halted like a trainwreck, but in slow motion. As we came down, I tried to grab onto something tangible to take with me: a constant, or a totem from that world that made sense outside of it.
But here, on this earth, the seasons change. And somewhere along the way, I lost him. To this day, I don’t know how, I don’t know where, I don’t know to whom, and I don’t know why.
But all that is irrelevant, as two more summers have come and gone. The only thing important to note: He was not the one.
And so I walked home. Part of me had wanted to say I did yearn for a summer love affair. But if I was to have a true love affair, it was going to be with Montreal, not a man.