I love James Dean… more than anything. More than pickles even. And I really do love pickles.
It almost isn’t love—To say that I love him would assume that I, the lover, is separate from him, the loved. And that just isn’t so. I is Him. I is Him.
Late last night he told me that he couldn’t promise me that he would love me always… He said that he could guarantee there would be times when I would annoy the shit out of him. But that he promised tonight and always that he would never stop trying. He said that if I could promise him the same… that we could be invincible.
But in spite of all these remarkable, heart rumbling, universe awakening feelings… I don’t think I have completely fallen for J.D. yet. I am holding back. I find myself looking in his green eyes and blinking just as I start to feel myself summersault into him. It’s as if with eye contact we share our everything. And I am scared. I am afraid that I may lose all sense of my Self if I experience the reality that there really is no difference between James and I.
To completely fall in love with James Dean is not to let a foreigner enter my space. This is not the fear… for he does not occupy my heart, as the romantics say. No. He is the space I occupy. He is the person taking up space. And everything in between. I am swollen with him. He runs, plays, swims, grows inside of me.
Perhaps I did not know myself completely until I met James Dean. I recognize him as part of me, like looking at my own reflection. Like closing my eyes and transcending. Before James I was just grasping, pathetically, at a foggy perception of “my” identity when all I needed to fully understand myself was… home.
That is what this man is to me… He is home. I am home.
Dear God, could it be that I am not an individual at all? That my identity—opinions, personality, experiences— are simply illusions? I thought myself the sum composite of all my life experiences. And yet… here I am… feeling abandoned and separate from the very things I held onto as “me.” And realizing… I am so much more.
So if I feel better, more whole, more grounded and gifted with James in my life, why am I terrified? Why won’t I let myself fall?
I don’t think it has anything to do with James. It’s me—I’m afraid of finally knowing me, entirely. For to completely fall in love with him would mean to fall around, in, through, behind, in front, of me. To know myself, without omission. And call me crazy, but the prospect of that is beautiful, yet terrifying.