Meeting Ernest

Oh, and I’ve felt so amazing lately. Ernest has come by. Finally.

He's so lovely. So absolutely brilliant. He smells really nice, which sounds perhaps a bit weird but he does. I find it important that people I like smell nice, it's almost an extension of their personality, their smell. Ernest smells like soap and a bit like wet leaves on one of those foggy autumn mornings when everything somehow looks orange.

He smiled at me when we were talking about how I love the country and how Wordsworth's Daffodils is one of my favourite poems, and he said he would love to show me where Wordsworth got the inspiration from.

Meeting him, finally, has clarified so much for me.

Obviously we have been dating ages, even if he doesn't know it yet - though he will, as I shall tell him - but there is an element of romance to actually meeting the object of your affections, even if it does diminish some of the beauty of his ephemerality. 

My love for Ernest is one of those true forms of love, where one loves the idea of a person rather than the person - it is so much easier to forgive an idea for the flaws of the person than the person for the flaws of the idea. 

Ideal love is so much more sustainable.

I do not even know why he is here, but yet I do not care - he is here.

He is real.

He is tangible.

He is Ernest.

I have been obsessing all day over something he said when I met him. He asked about what I do, and I told him I read poetry, and keep this blog, and have taken up drawing.

"I thought it would be like that," he replied, or "of course you do," or something wonderfully smug like that. He can't know me that well yet, can he? He shouldn't, I don't think even the idea of me can be forgiven for my totality of flaws (no ideal person can be fully forgiven for the totality of their flaws, I expect). What could it have meant? Or am I overanalysing? It means he had certain expectations of me... such as?

To quote Wordsworth, Ernest so often flashed upon my inward eye, and now he is here. And the person has no flaws the idea must be forgiven for. 

My dear, dear Ernest.

P.S. we are actually off to where Wordsworth wrote Daffodils. No idea how long I'll be gone. I'll leave a note for Gwen who's for some reason returning at one point or another. I think.