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The unspoken un-languaged communication between us is like a barely started e-mail which now sits latent in my drafts folder - it's been there ever since I promised you it. Whenever I go back to it to finish it, to say something, things go quiet - quiet, as in preverbal, whole. There's nothing coming to say to reach you even though your presence is everywhere.
So I just sit ... gazing at it.
As an edge, as a stake, as an ante up, I'm up against giving over to being completely and totally full - your gift to me. When I'm like this I don't need anything or anyone.
It's OK with me. Except when it's apropos you. Then I regard not needing anyone with trepidation. As soon as I realize being full and whole like this has me not needing you, that's when I discover I actually never want to not need you to the point where I'm no longer continuously and intentionally and always moving toward you.
My life is exactly this: continuously, intentionally, always moving toward you. It's always going this way in this direction. It's a paradox, a conundrum, an enigma. I don't need you - because of the gift of fullness you've given me - and yet I always want to need you.
God! I can't come up with a better word than "need" for this. In the ordinary sense, in the business as usual sense, "need" is too far down the damn totem pole, given what I'm implying. I really mean "need" in an extraordinary sense, in the same way as I need my heart or my lungs or my blood ... like that - that's what I mean when I say I need you. And even that isn't it yet.