Confessions of Infidelity

Dear You,

I'm going to come right out and say it: I've been having an affair.

For going on a year, we've been having a ball. And by ball, I mean blog. I've spilled speckles of self and you've lapped them up. And asked for more. You've left a trail of tender words here - seen and felt. And I've savored each one. Each day, I've kissed you good morning and good night. I've followed you home, holding your virtual hand, going where led. Skipping beside you. In your bloggy bed, we've cuddled, waxing poetic about the universe we shoulder and share. And each night, as we nod off, shutting down soul and self and psyche, you've whispered sweet nothings - and sweet everythings - into my ear. And I into yours.

There have been bloggy butterflies. Alighting, flying with purpose, landing softly and uncertainly on the edge of understanding. The precipice of discovery. Our bond has been at once fragile and foolproof, ragged and robust, full of affection and wonder and desire. I have come to need you. Your ideas. Your perspective. Your questions. I have come to crave your attention, your approval, your applause. My days are good because you are in them.

But last week something happened. I encountered a dark and brooding and beautiful ex.

The Novel.

And we've been spending some time together. Stolen moments. Late at night. Early in the day. Sometimes in the middle of it all; in the broad and boastful sunlight. And, during these times, I realized something I have known all this time.

I have missed him.

He is a bad boy. He broods and beckons. Define me, he says. Tell my story. I dare you. His blank pages are alluring and alarming. Into them, I dive and flail and come close to drowning. Time with him is less certain. I spend moments and hours and days in his presence and often have nothing to show for it. Just a confused heart. A mangled mind. And a blank page.

And yet. I need him. I crave his company. He captures me and challenges me and chides me. In his orbit, life grows murky. In his shadow, I see a surplus of stories. My stories. Your stories. Our stories. Impossible stories unfurling and unfolding. Of life and death. Of light and dark. Of salvation and struggle. When holding his hand, I feel safe and shaky. Clawed by confidence. Intoxicated by insecurity. Tangled in truth.

So, he's back. And he needs me. And I need him too.

So here I am. Caught in the magical middle. Awash in anxiety that by being with both of you, I'm really with neither of you. That in splitting myself, I'm losing myself.

And you.

I write these words because I've been feeling a bit naughty and wanted to fess up. Here I am seeking your forgiveness for my wandering pen and heart and mind. Here I am telling you where I am when I am not with you, curled up, stroking your back, saying I love you.

But know this: I do love you. More deeply than you know. And I hope that you stay with me. Even though I'm not perfectly committed. Even though I am philandering with fiction.

Insecurely yours,

Aidan

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Are you monogamous when it comes to blogging or do you cheat on your blog and write elsewhere? How do you handle the split focus of affection? Do you find it difficult to juggle your loves? Do you ever feel like you are cheating on one aspect of your life (family, profession, etc) when you are spending time with another? Is this existential infidelity just part of life? Feel free to talk about actual affairs too. That would be very interesting and wonderful material for this blog. Oh, and for my next novel(s). (Don't be jealous.)

***This post was inspired by my guilt about devoting time to something other than my blog and by my virtual sisters' fabulous Love It Up challenge. Head on over to Momalom between now and Valentine's Day to read some other love letters...***