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Ten (/tɛn/): equivalent to the product of five and two; one more than nine; 10

When we are young a week is a lifetime. Minutes can tease and a simple school day might take an act of force to simply move through.

Then a month goes by, slightly faster.

And a year.

And a decade.

At 34 I feel the speed building steadily and continually. The last 120 months feel more like a restless redeye flight, where I look down in a half-awakened state as miles of moments slip by on Zeno’s arrow.

Ten years ago I stood, my feet nestled in warm sand on a wonderfully moderate August afternoon, and said, with shaky knees, words entirely new to me.

I could not eat that day from nerves. Three bites of a burger and the rest thrown away. My suit fit strangely, hair needed cutting. Family, friends, so many wonderful faces.

I looked over at her, a person I barely knew. A complex woman with a wonderful mind and beautiful smile. Someone who would surprise me continually, nearly every day. A person patient, with a seemingly endless capacity for kindness and love.

Sometimes now we’ll lock eyes in wonder that we are not the same. How is it that we are truly other people? Who is this person here in front of me?

I wonder how we are so closely connected while hindered by repelling atoms. A touch must be more. A feeling. A response to proximity. I feel it. I know we are here together.

There are things we can not know but rather feel about each other. An intuition might come one moment, a compulsion to be touched and calmed. Every minute that follows is one in which one will slowly clutch the other, a quiet tension in the hands for only seconds.

For ten years my life has been connected to that of another. This person I chose, she chose. We continue to choose.

And I chose on our first date. We played with sugar packets and talked. And talked. And talked.

And still we talk. Some nights we must force ourselves to sleep. Our language takes over and we blend our thoughts into some kind of asynchronous entanglement.

The world is full of words on love, so I will talk of being; I am here and she is too. For ten years it has not been the language of marriage, I do, or love that have kept our worlds in orbit. These simple words are nearly lost to me from overuse.

It is the intuition, the gentle beating I feel when I think of her.
It is in the quiet I listen but it can not be heard.
In the open I feel for it but it is not in time or space.

I know of her and she of me.

Like a gentle heartbeat…

softly…

always present.

Ten (/tɛn/): equivalent to the product of five and two; one more than nine; 10

When we are young a week is a lifetime. Minutes can tease and a simple school day might take an act of force to simply move through.

Then a month goes by, slightly faster.

And a year.

And a decade.

At 34 I feel the speed building steadily and continually. The last 120 months feel more like a restless redeye flight, where I look down in a half-awakened state as miles of moments slip by on Zeno’s arrow.

Ten years ago I stood, my feet nestled in warm sand on a wonderfully moderate August afternoon, and said, with shaky knees, words entirely new to me.

I could not eat that day from nerves. Three bites of a burger and the rest thrown away. My suit fit strangely, hair needed cutting. Family, friends, so many wonderful faces.

I looked over at her, a person I barely knew. A complex woman with a wonderful mind and beautiful smile. Someone who would surprise me continually, nearly every day. A person patient, with a seemingly endless capacity for kindness and love.

Sometimes now we’ll lock eyes in wonder that we are not the same. How is it that we are truly other people? Who is this person here in front of me?

I wonder how we are so closely connected while hindered by repelling atoms. A touch must be more. A feeling. A response to proximity. I feel it. I know we are here together.

There are things we can not know but rather feel about each other. An intuition might come one moment, a compulsion to be touched and calmed. Every minute that follows is one in which one will slowly clutch the other, a quiet tension in the hands for only seconds.

For ten years my life has been connected to that of another. This person I chose, she chose. We continue to choose.

And I chose on our first date. We played with sugar packets and talked. And talked. And talked.

And still we talk. Some nights we must force ourselves to sleep. Our language takes over and we blend our thoughts into some kind of asynchronous entanglement.

The world is full of words on love, so I will talk of being; I am here and she is too. For ten years it has not been the language of marriage, I do, or love that have kept our worlds in orbit. These simple words are nearly lost to me from overuse.

It is the intuition, the gentle beating I feel when I think of her.
It is in the quiet I listen but it can not be heard.
In the open I feel for it but it is not in time or space.

I know of her and she of me.

Like a gentle heartbeat…

softly…

always present.

ramurphy

ramurphy

I’m a married, 30 something living in San Francisco. I spend my time eating well, getting together with friends, exploring new ideas and places, and reading wide into a variety of subjects. I love to learn and consider new ideas.

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