The first challenge is the desert. Narcissism, vanity, show, pride, oblivion, self interest, selfishness, unseeing and uninterested eyes. Overcome the vast miles of nothingness that dismisses him as he travels them. He must be willing to look through empty sands that say, “We care nothing for you, if you come or if you stay at home. This place was not built for you, this place was built for me and me alone. Your comfort and ease is not a consideration, the challenge was not placed here for you to endure. This space will go one being what it is as though you never were.” First he must travel through and believe there is something. I want him to kiss me there.
Once the deserts have ended there are the gates. Walls of fire, rage, hostility, violence, and death. Here he must past through, fight, bloody himself in my furry, here he must show strength, tenacity, endurance, and power. I will breathe fire, from my heart spears will pierce him ever time he reaches for me, my fingers will pull the trigger time and time again. He is my enemy, a danger to the perimeter of my world, a threat to all that is me. At the gates he must hold his ground and in my fierce rage I want him to kiss me there.
Beyond the gates lie a garden. Always spring, everything is fresh, fragile, and new. My insecurities dash about like rabbits, my fears, anxieties, and hopes tremble at the rawness and vulnerability. In this place he must watch his boots very closely, each leaf, every blade of grass must be handle with care, dedication, and utmost devotion or all will die. Even in his weary, wounded state not a single drop of blood may spill on the soil here. The innocence is to be preserved. In my gardens of inexperience, I want him to kiss me there.
Coming in from the garden he will wait in the library. Each wall filled, ceiling to floor, rows and aisle of books. The texts are filled with stories from my life, memories, histories, legends, and myths. There lie the building blocks, each text book I’ve studied, theory I’ve pondered, scene I’ve seen acted out scrawled on the pages. Handwritten, typed, penciled, bookmarked, the files are listed of my family history, dating back through my genetic make up centuries ago. Every scrap of paper I’ve scribbled on, the nonsense, the profound, the childish, the games, the reminders, the shame, and the pride. Every moment of education, culture, and understanding. He must know them all. Every line. He must contend with them, trade them for his, deposit his wealth of books and know how they merge to form one beautiful body of works. In every text, line, and word I want him to kiss me there.
With this new found knowledge perhaps he will want to step outside. Open the backdoor and there is a spinning colliding mass of space. Darkness and light spiraling wildly about. Here is God. My personal God. He must open the door and meet the chaos and logic of my God. As he steps out back to breath deep he must gather the complete and total size and complexity as well as the simplicity and beauty of my God. The breath of relaxation should become a gasp of awe. In that moment he must understand all of my faith, fears, and struggles with this deity. The massive mess and lengthy saga that has spread its way through my life, swallowing my being whole just as the back yard threatens to swallow the entire castle. He must understand, he must fail to understand, he must be inspired and dreading and worshiping and fleeing and he must bring his very own saga into that moment. To this God he brings the deserts from which he entered, the fires at the gates, the tenderness of the garden, and the knowledge of the library, as his very own. In this moment he asks for help. At the feet of God I want him to kiss me there.
When he gently shuts the door behind him he should walk into the living room. Here we will sit, recline, and be still on the sofa. The doors will close, silence will trap us, lock us in, being to suffocate me. No words will be spoken and time will pass slowly. Shrieks, sobs, and anguish will emanate from me while I battle my own demons in this stillness. Terrors will pass my face and body from places no knowledge or understanding can reach. Nothing will bring him into these battles, these silent horrifying battles of the soul. In these moments he will battle his own helplessness, a sense of futility, the pain of watching a loved one suffer while immobilized. His mettle will be tested in staying, remaining immobile, not lashing out while the doors stay locked. Instead he will hold a struggling body, pray for the ravaged mind, encourage in everyway possible and at the end he will not bare the grudge of having seen such a time. In those moments of darkness, I want him to kiss me there.
When the locks fall off and the clouds roll on their way I will pull him into the kitchen. Here the mood will lighten. The music fills the space, dancing and spinning, I cook and serve and play. Dish after dish of the best foods are served, his favorites, meals he’s only dreamed of, each with an outpouring of show. Smiling and laughing there is a parade that I perform, each mask and it’s purpose explained, each one removed. Gems and glitter, lights and noise, chaos and beauty, dancing about him. Drinks, food, merriment. I bring the carnival to his feet, my joy to serve him, to love him, to create magic in front of his very eyes. Here we share the heights of friendships play, the magic of children, the belief in Neverland. In the rollick of good times, I want him to kiss me there.
After all of this, after he has crossed my deserts, walked through my flames, approached my fears, read my stories, met my God, held me in the darkness, and ate at my table, then I will take him into my bedroom. He knows me completely, has kissed my every scar, has loved my every face, has stayed through every kind of trial and joy. He knows me and loves me. In my bedroom, I want to kiss him there.
