There is no doubt in my mind that the outraged attitudes of men toward rejection are sourced to entitlement, not pain, and certainly not love. However, in the likely event that anyone would plead otherwise, I am going to state outright that I would not care if my soulmate didn’t want me.
“You’ve never had that experience!” someone shouts accusingly from the back. To which I would respond, how dare you insult the capacity of my imagination, imaginary person—I imagined you, so what kind of self-drag is this. And also, that if I haven’t, then for all I know, he doesn’t.
The fact of the matter is that, in order to dismiss it, anyone could think up a million scenarios more preposterous than my statement that I wouldn’t care if my soulmate didn’t want me, such as if your soulmate doesn’t want you, then he wouldn’t be your soulmate (dehumanizing and easy) and you’re just saying that because you haven’t met him (presumptuous and besides the point). Perhaps out of all of these, the only reasonable allegation is that “wouldn’t care” is too dismissive for accuracy, but the sentiment remains. My simple truth is that I believe a man can be my soulmate and not want me, that I would want him to have the choice to not want me, and that what I would proceed to do is continue to wonder whether or not I am in fact four-dimensional.
Dear reader, I remembered earlier this week a game we used to play in grade school that involved cutting a square smaller than a quarter into a sheet of paper, then attempting to pass the quarter through the tiny square. It is impossible, until the page is folded, upon which the square begins to gape and the coin passes through easily. Of course, this works because a piece of paper is a two-dimensional object that exists in our three-dimensional world, allowing it to disappear into the third dimension when folded, and thereby permitting the coin to pass.
I want to disappear into every dimension there is. Realistically I am absolutely impenetrable. But if I could—fold dimensions deep inside of me that I did not know I ever had—all of shears of Light could pass through me until I—until I were nothing and every moving planetary body at once.
Free will is such a glorious thing, and the only home in which love can reside, and considering how important it is in the Qur’an I should think my preposterous little statement were not… so preposterous, is it?
An agent declined my manuscript recently, saying my language was too flowery for her taste. I was so flattered. Maybe that is strange too, to be flattered. But the …“floweriness” of the language was not a quality I would change, at least for this particular book (and needless to say, she had herself specified that this was a matter of preference). And so I had sighed ecstatically and exploded into stars.
This was a very serious post initially, but now I’m in such a mood. I will revisit the subject when I am not so dreamy.