sleeping dogs
If first impressions mean anything, I think I like you. Or at least I think that I could like you, if I actually knew you, which I don't.
I don't trust you. And I shouldn't, because again, I don't know you. Do I even want to know you? I don't know. Unfortunately, however, I don't not trust you because I don't know you. I don't trust you because I don't trust anyone new anymore.
I have absolutely no expectations in this situation. Which is good, since I may never even see you again. However, that's not the point. The point is that I feel that my lack of expectations isn't based on some kind of enlightened, go with the flow, embrace life as it happens rather than ruminating on the past or agonizing over the future kind of thing. My lack of expectations is more related to my lack of enthusiasm for life. Losing heart, we called it in Shambhala School of Buddhist Studies.
I do take some solace in the fact that I like you, at least a little bit, or at least think that maybe I could like you, if I knew you. The ability to see an opening, no matter how small, feels like a very good thing.
Turning tack, I must say that you, on the other hand, have some nerve. You, of all people, show up now? You, who occupies so much of my mind and so much more of my heart? You are always just out of my reach like a box on the top shelf; you've placed yourself at just such a distance that as soon as I feel your edges in my fingertips I slip and push you further away. I'm done climbing up onto the counter top to fetch you. You can stay there, on your shelf, safe and sound—just the way you like it. That doesn't mean that I don't love you. It just means that I'm learning to let sleeping dogs lie.