“I fear for Huginn, that he might not come back, yet more anxious am I for Muninn.”
I’ve traded an eye for knowledge and sacrificed my body to gain wisdom. I fought wars and have taken the fallen men to my halls. I’ve loved and I lost loves. I’ve made so many memories over the past centuries, memories I treasure more than anything. Thoughts and memories, Huginn and Muninn, they fly through Midgard, through worlds no one dared to go before. Huginn shakes his feathers, he’s bold and mesmerising. Muninn his cry sounds different, bittersweet, he’s chaotic and sometimes stays away for too long. Both provide me with answers I seek, each in their own unique way. I’m afraid of losing my train of thought, but memories are irreplaceable. The birth of my children, the creation of mankind and carving their world out of bones of giants. All of these memories changed me, perhaps even made me a better man. Thoughts and Memories, Huginn and Muninn, are crucial even to immortal men.
I love the way you show me that you need space. Grabbing your earbuds, listening to an audio book, browsing social media. You create your own bubble, occasionally letting me in by softening your gaze, a smile lingering on your lips.
I love that you recently started going to the gym when I’m at your place. You come back to me refreshed and happy, the serious frown on your forehead reduced to relaxed lines. I feel the tension slide from your shoulders and watch it wash away in the shower drain.
I love that I am only “half people” to you, being with me still requires energy but less than with others. I give you the freedom to leave at parties and you give me the option to stay.
But some days, I prefer to be your half person.
I love you more than busy parties, public events and social gatherings.
I love you most when you’re on twitter.
“You cut your hair.” He said, glaring at me.
“Yes, I like it short.” I replied. What else was there to say?
“It’s not feminine.” He stated. Like it was a fact , something written in a manual.
I got angry, because who was he to define femininity for me. A word I could colour like a blank canvas, but he decided to take the brush and splatter black paint all over my work of art.
“Neither are your clothes.” He spoke while continuing to destroy. My insecurities rising, my knuckles turning white from clenching my fists.
“But they’re me.”
I’m still the one painting this picture, it’s for me to decide if I dress in combat boots or in lace and frills. I can feel feminine in whatever I put on my body, just like I can be masculine in stiletto heels. Because you see, I’m the artist here.
You can have your opinion, your own work of art , but you don’t have the right to shape mine. Because it’s easy you see…
“I paint my own picture of femininity.”.
It took me a year to see that you and I were no longer we, trying to hold on to a puzzle but missing the essential piece. Using other mediums to fill the gap, because it’s easier to crumble together than to cry alone.
Holding hands felt like my fingers were entangled in electrical wiring, but the spark wasn’t exciting anymore, it was playing the waiting game until there was a negative charge. No longer one, but polar opposites.
We were like a rock but dissipated into grains of sand, small and fragile letting the wind carry us to new land. Reaching higher places, deeper grounds. If you and I are meant to be I will make sure that I will reappear. A pearl in a clam on the river bank, a hidden gem to be retrieved by those I deem worthy of loving me.
Sometimes things are meant to end, only to find them again.