I'm noncompetitive & I slept in my truck last night.
I didn't have to; I could've gone back to my own floors, like a comfortable nomad; I could've met up with a friend & slept a night upon the floors of friendship; I could've made new friends with a stranger & gone to sleep much later in the guise of throes of Love... but I didn't. I slept in my truck, by the side of the road, in Salt Lake City.
There was a dancer at the pub last night. I equate well with dancers, being quite an avid one, myself. She was obviously interested in going home with or in taking home a stranger, and... stranger I was (or perhaps, am) to her, and I had her eye, though she was dancing with an awkward snowboarder.
I dodged her many glances and allowed her and the snowboarder to continue in their reverie without disruption, being at one point in my Life, an awkward snowboarder myself.
His game, much like my own, was never solid (as you see, to date or court a woman is quite rarely an act of genius, but of guesses, quick assumptions, and a lot of crossing fingers), but it didn't seem to need to be with her.
She was dancing, he was dancing, this was enough for her, it seemed. Whether she was intoxicated on a substance other than the liquids of our patronized establishment or on things not found within those walls was anybody's guess.
For our intentions here, I will simply state that this dancer on the side was quite obviously full of Life and therefore intoxicated by no other thing than that. She wanted me to speak to her, to dance with her, to go home with her, but I did not.
I'm not - even at this time - completely certain as to why I didn't make my own moves on her before the snowboarder arrived... I believe it is because of the same reasons that I stated in my first entry on this blog: because attached to every pair of breasts & every fair vagina in this world seems to be as well a Human Being with its own conceptions of reality, its own decisions, goals, and dreams, and I'd rather not get in the mix of someone else's Life, just to disappear upon a sailship bound for question marks and islands that might keep me gone for years.
Decades are not easily understood by those so apt for telling time, I've found... which has always been quite odd to me, for... isn't it sweet Time that does the telling, not the other way around?
It has been my experience in this way, at least. It has also been my own experience to find so many others who are simply bent on winning: this is all they care about and it drives them to be better - not just than themselves, but - than everyone.
I have never been this way. To me, to win is almost meaningless. Sure, it's nice to get a prize, but shouldn't that prize go to the one who needs it most, rather than the one whose desire drives them hardest to be first?
Others disagree with this, of course, and they'll always carry with them a plethora of reasons, but I feel the way I feel and the way I feel is how I've always felt:
If winning means so much to you... well... then you should win; for it has never held significance with me beyond the thrills of circumstance.
So I never even tried to answer that delightful dancer's glances beyond the normal cordialities, despite my lack of bedding for the night. I could have found myself between her knees and on her kitchen table or awakening with glances toward the bathroom & an awkwardly numb & pinned-down arm... but I abstained... and the snowboarder had his day - or night, rather - as he may or may not have deserved.
So... now... here I am, awakened & softly typing at a diner before teaching kids to read & write & understand the delightful intricacies of math...
Oh... Love... forever an escaping thing, prepared to dart from door to door and ask for bread and eggs and sugar, without ever making my French toast... so I end up at diners in the strangest places, making faces at myself, and drifting... ever drifting... ever drifting on...
♡ Joshua
