But we’ll get there soon enough—i can’t help thinking, exhausted by these transformations, of all that i’ve been given, and all that I have to be thankful for. Considering, too, that I choose to believe, it won’t come as a surprise, when, maybe in this life, maybe not, i’m connected with the woman of my dreams—my very own Ursula, that, as a believer, i speak to, little by little, in every way. You might say, of late, that I’ve pushed my love to the limits—and, in so doing, i’ve driven myself down, a little, into the dumps, considering that i might never get over this impotence—this desire for something that I cannot realize in a physical way. You might say it’s pretty fucking rough, at times, considering that I want to be ready for a potential mate—someone that could be—would be, my Ursula, if, that is, I could convince her to stay. That I might feel excruciating desire for someone that I can’t physically express—and that, because of that, true love, in this life, cannot emerge.
But, like I said, I choose to believe, since, well, I only doubt myself about half way, which means I believe in myself just enough to believe in her—the woman that, one day, i’ll realize, physically, as my mate. But I consider, too: this longing i feel is a longing for Him—and by Him, in this case, I mean my 5 dimensional self—the person that’s living my life, in the afterlife, right now, as we speak. That person, I believe, is connected to everything, and, when I’m reunited with Him, I’ll be whole, again. Love for a woman would go hand in hand, then, with the loving that comes from loving myself—as only He can. But don’t get me wrong—Ursula means everything to me—i believe she’s out there, waiting for me, longing, likewise, for the divine, and choosing, like me, to believe that this one, the one she’s in contact with—and to think, how wonderful is a blessing like that? will realize his potential, and share it, happily, with her.
But I digress—these appointments, each day, that make up this book, are about my relationship with Ursula—this book is the means by which we communicate; i can’t say, for certain, that she’ll read this—but I imagine that, at some point, she will—that our paths will cross, here, that her longing for me will be assuaged by this bridge—and that, well, i feel that, too, in the here and now. That is my reward. This book, in fact, is my reward—it takes my suffering and turns it into something so meaningful that I can, and do, continue. Now—is it painful to see loveable women on TV, and know that, well, i’ll never be with them—that they, in fact, at least in this reality, cannot be Ursula, since I, in this reality, am already at home? Of course it is. It’s excruciating—but a spiritual connection is what, in the end, is the most emotionally satisfying—physical love is just one means of satisfying those emotional needs. This goes beyond the pleasures of the flesh—it’s something that i can integrate, and keep with me, throughout the day; it’s something that I can dedicate myself too—another mind, a mind that feels the same way about me as I feel about it . . . her, my dream girl.
So, I’m tuning her in, now—using Anna’s voice is a little sobering, now that I know Anna is not right for me, but her voice, I still believe, is the best link to my Ursula, a voice that i can replicate—and easily project. And you’re thinking of me? And I realize, of course, that the doubt I feel with respect to her is similar to the doubt that she must feel with respect to me—for she must be thinking: how can i, of all people, be the woman he dreams of, when, it would seem, he can have any woman he wants? “I want you,” i tell her—i know how we long, at times, for a sign; too much, i know, raises suspicion—but a little at a time, like a piecemeal conversation that begins to make sense—something that, at some point, she can read, and experience, at the same time, an extended and encouraging feeling of deja vous, is, at least in part, i imagine, what we truly live for.
“I love you, specifically, the woman that’s been alone long enough to feel a longing for God, and a physical connection to something that goes beyond, far beyond, the real men you might think of in your day to day life. At least for now.” You’re crazy, she says, and, I know, because i doubt myself by about fifty percent, well, I understand the concern. “You’re not crazy,” I tell her, and she seems to hear me. You can be whoever you want . . . you can have whoever you want “I want you,” but before this gets too sappy for you (and for us, as well) let me remind you: I’m 47 years old. I’ve spent most of those 47 years without a partner, both impotent and celibate, and I may not end up with a lot of time, in this life, to share with this person. I’m already counting on time served, here, to carry over into the next life, making it all the more rewarding, considering the loneliness that, as an anonymous artist that can’t live an independent life—a life that would involve a family of my own, certainly feels. So, yeah, that puts a little bit of a damper on this—just knowing that, for a significant amount of time, I’ll likely be dead, and my Ursula, that much younger than me, will live on without me—we, for that time, will be necessarily separated—there’s no getting around it.