I read the chapter in his book about him falling in love with a beautiful Tibetan-Indian. About their passionate love making. About his weaknesses and vulnerabilities for her. Unlike all the other chapters, this was very well written. It felt so real and so powerful. I couldn’t stop reading. I shook my head and told myself to put the book down, that I shouldn’t continue, that I was reading into pain I didn’t need. But of course I didn’t stop, I kept turning the pages. I was angry – and – sad – and – defensive. All of those emotions. I felt the stings physically as if I was tumbling, rolling, in free fall against jagged rocks.
So instead and to distract myself from those unexpected emotions, I concentrated on his sorrow. I started to feel the weight of his problems on my shoulders. The weight of all he felt in his soul, the fight between living a typical life and discovering depths and oceans of more.
By this point, I couldn’t stop the tears from rolling freely down my face. I unconsciously took all his experiences and felt like I had to compartmentalise them, individually separate them. Learn them. His triumphs and miseries. His compassionate lovers and empty loves. Just so I could figure all of him out from those 10 pages. As if this would guide his journey. Help him find himself.
And in that same moment, drowning in emotions that were not even mine, I was so worried about the future. I was so worried about what him and I had in store. My head was pounding with patience for him and weakness for myself. This chapter was hard.
I flipped another page, and the tears continued. I had too many opinions, about who he was: brash, spontaneous, in search of so much unknowns, and who I was. And how serious and emotionally hidden I was.
It was a real battle, not caring has always been my battle. Stopping my thoughts, objective again, I ran my finger along the spine of his book, and continued to read those pages of his truth.