At last, I found it. That proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is not just proverbial anymore. Tout d’abord, before I explain how I found whatever I found, let me provide some context. You see, I’ve always been a dreamer. As a young girl, I was a voracious reader; my teachers always reported poor time management since the only thing I would do in school was read (“poor” is subjective, in my opinion). At 10 years old, I read Jacob Have I Loved for the first time and while the protagonist’s crush on a much older man captured me, I found it very difficult to empathize. A year later, I picked up The Horse Whisperer at a secondhand book shop simply because I adored horses and was unwittingly introduced into a dark universe of death, infidelity, and ephemeral love (a theme that especially piqued my curiosity). In 7th grade, I read all 692 pages of The Thorn Birds and was more in awe than in shock of the explicit erotic content. Again, the concept of an unattainable love between a rebellious, misunderstood girl and an ambitious, flawed older man struck a chord with me.
My point with these anecdotes is that throughout my life, far before I had personal experience with many subjects, I had enough vicarious experience to paint a picture of what these occasions would be like for me. Then, when I finally found myself in the very situation I’d read about, daydreamed about, and quite possibly written about, one of three scenarios would play out. First, real life would exceed my expectations and I’d be blown away (rare). Second, real life would be exactly as I’d pictured and I’d be in an astonished state of déjà vu (even more rare). Third, real life would fall well below my expectations and I’d realize that fiction is fictional for a reason (quite common).
Tonight, as I find myself in Paris, having spent the weekend at my French boyfriend’s summerhouse in la campagne, halfway between Aix-en-Provence and Nice, I have to wonder: do you create your own destiny? Although my decisions of the past few years or even decades have followed no conscious agenda and I like to consider myself whimsical, somehow recently the most prevalent dreams of my preteen self have been becoming reality one by one. In Luc, I’ve found my tall, dark, and handsome musician/artist/foreigner/older man. I refuse to believe him when he says I love him for those superficial qualities, but perhaps they are more influential than I dare to think — after all, these desires shaped my subconscious for years.
All I know is that this weekend was exactly what I want, what I have always wanted. Voilà, this is what my pot of gold looks like:
Of course, this situation is made all the more ironic and comical (for all you sadists out there) by the fact that in two weeks, I will be 4212 miles or 6778 kilometers from Luc and there is no guarantee I will ever see him again. Somewhere, the gods are laughing at me, “Be careful what you wish for, honey. You wanted to be a thorn bird? Then that you shall be.”
Do you ever find your imagination becoming a self-fulfilling prophesy? Do you think that if you “plan” for certain events in your life, it makes the experiences less authentic?