Rainbows are a complete circle. We only see half of them because of our perspective. Where does the rest go? Is someone on the other side of the world simultaneously gazing in wonder at the other half of my rainbow?
As a woman in 2018 I am supposed to know that I, also, am a complete circle and to scoff at such idiocy as "you complete me". I am supposed to understand that I am whole just as I am without requiring Mr Arsey Darcy to tell me so. I have spent five years mostly out of relationships in order to permenantly attach the other half of my rainbow to my soul without the aide of a bloke. I have plumbed my depths and come up short. An itch of emptiness here and there that I can't quite scratch.
Most days I feel the circle close around me and a sense of wholeness descends on my heart. Yet there are days when I wonder whether someone on the other side of the world is looking at the other half of me because it feels so far away.
This weekend I am disconnecting, the itch starting to niggle too often. It is only regular time in the wilderness that closes the other half of this circle around me in a way that sticks tight. Until it loosens and begins to drift away. Then the answer is always the wild ... always. It is never, ever, Tinder. Remember that.
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