The End is in Sight

After three weeks of not having TMI home with me in Dijon, he is at last making his triumphant return to my longing arms tomorrow afternoon. (With several cases of wine, rumor has it.) But, instead of feeling excited and giddy, I find myself feeling increasingly miserable; loosing sleep, in fact. Amazingly, after a lighting fast 8 months in France, Christmas is already appearing on the horizon and thus bringing with it the mandatory plane tickets to return me to the islands and to my family.

TMI is obligated to stay in Dijon at least another two years to finish his analog studies. My visa is up in February and without money or a well paying job which in turn requires the miraculous miracle of a French work visa, coming back to France would be...difficult.

Today, coincidentally and for the first time, I allowed myself to admit to friends and family and, perhaps more importantly, to myself, that I am in love. And I am scared. Scared out of mind about enduring a last night with TMI. The alarm the morning I have to drag myself out of his arms and somehow out the door; to the train station and through the airport terminals alone; knowing that I have three days and half a globe to put between me and the man I love. Not to mention the incredible menace of facing the obscurity of responsibility and adulthood in which I have virtually NO DIRECTION.

There's a part me that still bitterly denies the existence of true and/or lasting love. Maybe it's for the best that TMI and I execute our relationship at the height of its youth and fervor instead of letting it get old and stale. It's a meaningful union (I'm ashamed it took me so long to realize it) and maybe it deserves better than to cool off in drawn-out domestication. It deserves tears and misery. Die young and face the history books with eternal youth, right?