open...he

when i skimmed the screen and came across it, i was immediately intrigued. and instantly afraid.

he gave it to me willingly, a present encased in an unassuming comment on my blog, a brown study wrapping of velvet imagination. an intricate pattern of his insight into my entry was embroidered into the cloth, revealing intertwining vines of his mind with mine. i didn't notice his gift immediately, as its quiet allure was drowned out by the loud hues of gaudy phrases of paper thin praise drapping other comments surrounding it. they crumbled into nothing beneath my probing stare, the obvious emptiness of their contents making them weak structures in the face of my scrutiny. meanwhile, his comment remained standing. the longer i stared, the more fearful i became as i realized its foundation was strong enough to shake mine.

i didn't open it.

i instead contented myself with staring at his gift from afar, my eyes etched into the threads stiched across the surface of his statements, my heart itching for knowledge of what lay inside.

my mind was fertilized by the seed of his interest, becoming impregnated with dozens of embryonic thoughts as the excitement at the possibility of another gift made delivery of newborn self-examination only mildly discomforting. the contractions were milliseconds apart as my cerebrum dilated, the folds of my subconscious splitting as the words were pushed from within me, an endless birthing of entries covered in the clinging fluid of raw emotion. they lay naked and wailing within the indigo confines of my blog, their cries splintering the minds of those with courage enough to read them.

i wonder if he knows he is their father?

i mean, how could he not know? each entry bears a resemblance to him. the firstborn, and each one after that, has his eyes, luminescent orbs with sight into my soul. some of them have his nose, wide and open to the scent of my spirit, cinnamon notes of vulnerability layered with citrus hints of tenacity, a perfume i try to cloak beneath a heavy splash of sarcasm. others have his large hands, their fingertips familiar with each man-made valley carved into my landscape. a few more have his mouth, soft lips suckling from my breast, the honest essence of myself either being swallowed greedily or dribbling down the letters to land in puddled puntuation at the end of each sentence. all of them bear the birthmark of bruised skin, having had to push their way past the scars of my mental endometriosis before they enter existence. i cradle them all to me, wishing for them the strength to move the world onto a new axis of inspiration, loving them with the same desperation i love their father.

i want them to grow up to be just like him.

each entry receives a gift from their daddy, though he has no idea they are his children. at first glance, his offerings all look to be encased in the same brown velvet. however, upon closer inspection, i notice the earthy notes of his humor printed in whimsical swirls in the wrapping of some of the packages. others have the onyx lines of his jagged wit zig-zagging across the surface in scattered sequences. still others wear painted patterns of his pain, diaphanous whispers of crimson cracks feathering the surface of the wrapping like wrinkles across a sun-dried countenance.

he reveals so much in the gift of his comments and yet i have never been courageous enough to open any of his offerings, afraid to peel back the sumptuous cloth for fear of finding the package holding uninspired elements inside. my hopes are simply too high. the wrapping is so lush, its rich velvet wording hinting at a fathomless depth of insight i am sure cannot be surpassed in either beauty or movement by anything contained within. i've known the disappointment of opening a gift only to find a matryoshka of samsonite baggage, an unending unveiling of illusion until i hold nothing in my hands.

but eventually i grew restless...

i thought it was enough for me to simply view his gifts and revel in the feeling of knowing someone understood me, someone who saw my writing as a blind man sees a summer sunset...the taste, touch, smell and sound of my words reconstructing the sight of my soul in his mind. but i grew restless. the presents were stacking high, all of their wrapping intact, and my self control was evaporating fast beneath the heat of my constant yearning.

it's time he knows how i feel. i want him to know he's a father.

i pulled the first comment he ever gifted to me and read it again, finding a reflection of my own experiences in his words, bolstering my courage to finally, after all this time, open the package.

and so i did.

"hey...you probably never saw this email coming but i've wanted to tell you for the longest just how much your comments on my blog inspire me. i'd really like to get to know you better..."