Musings on a Sunday Evening
Where to begin. At the beginning. A very good place to start.
Words feel useless. Nothingness. An odd, yet not unfamiliar feeling for a writer. I’ve been here before. Never with this understated sense of urgency, however. This urgency, fueled by age, brings to bear a hollow piece of my life on the tip of my writing utensil and the blank page of my muse.
Where else would I flee? Where else may a creative run to shadow his grief and shade it just so, just right, lending his sadness a normalcy which truly does not exist, at least not with most humans. That’s the feeling, isn’t it? That sadness and loss is never felt as deeply, as painfully, as heart-wrenchingly debilitating.
I wonder at how my dearest Ayesha has avoided this pall. Hope. That slim teaser of the emotionally avalanched. The energizer of a lackluster heart which has known far too much disappointment. There remains hope that she still lives. Hope that she still carries in her heart a love for me which warms my soul with a mere thought of her.
Every UK notification on my blog’s stat line revives the glimmer of tomorrow becoming a better day. Despite all, the ghostlike peeks from that land across the sea convinces me the eyes belong to her, she of high intellect and deep emotion. She, from dreams and follies of the heart, who strolls my dim corridors even now.
I sat at this favored table on the intercoastal with the intent of ameliorating my heart’s heaviness. I’m all over the place. Strains of “We’ve Only Just Begun” from last night’s musical reverie twist and wind their way throughout my inner sanctum, scraping its walls, depositing scratches and smears in chaotic wake.
How fragile we are. Even when we reach a point of inner strength, certain life-wounds may crop up from ninja darkness to slash at you despite the fact of you knowing better. Too much love to give. None to return it.
I’ve discovered there exist far too many rules about loving someone. You can’t love her, she’s far too flighty, too this, too that. In my final analysis, I love who I love, without the good sense of analytically ruling out their instability, neurotics, and life damage.
All the love songs. All the love letters. All the love poems. All love. Each deliver pain. Just as there is no good without bad, no wrong without right, no courage without fear, there is no love without pain. What price pain?
I suppose I am the high-risk lover. I open my heart to damaged women who will strike me down as a matter of self-defense because they each cannot comprehend that a man may love long and deep and sincere. The gamble, the risk, comes in one woman finding it within herself to step back and make a better choice. A choice which allows her to believe in something long beaten down within her. That someone could love her for who she is with all the scars and damage and tears. That she might be able to circumvent the arduous task of wading through decades of pain and be gifted a restart button.
I do suppose this is too much to expect of anyone. But what if? What if she would take that chance? Alas, I see it now. The damage is too great. This scenario plays out in my life at this very moment. I’ve rekindled myself to a good place, yet the pain and damage of past wrongs and abuses haunt me.
Oddly, despite my reticence and repugnance to bold and overbearing personality traits, I find myself in a position of strength of sorts, in emotionality. (I didn’t even know that was a word! LOL!).
I had my heart ripped from me two and a half years ago, yet I cobble together the shattered pieces of my heart and deign to set forth on a final journey to love. My “shattered illusions of love” as Stevie Nicks so eloquently put it, are now pieced back together in a wary, but not unbelieving me. Stripped of much if not all of love’s illusion, I still maintain I can carry a love affair deeply, romantically, lovingly, for the rest of my days – but, and yes there is now a “but,” I must not be alone in this quest. She must join me.
Isn’t that the same as its always been? Isn’t that the grail I’ve searched out all these years? Absolutely. Now, though, the discernment of her commitment is more under siege by my heart’s eye. We love who we love. We have prerequisites as to temperament, looks, emotional heights and depths, intelligence levels, and a host of other criteria both known and unknown to us. The unknow, that “X Factor” becomes the crux of the process.
Of this I’m certain. I am drawn to whom I’m drawn. This does not make others less desirable; it simply makes them less desirable to me. I desire whom I desire, and I do not question that fact. I may step back and move with caution, but I will not step against the trust I’ve built within myself that I have grown and matured and can be the “me” I’ve always imagined. I am there, learning each day to move one more step forward, believing in love, companionship, relationship, and harmony.
I’m not foolish enough to believe there will be no strife, no struggle, no pain, but I’ll be damned if I will give up the ghost of the hope of love within my heart and become an emotional automaton for the rest of my days. This may preclude me from discovering the love I’ve longed for in this life, but it will not see me giving up.
I’ve been abused in my life emotionally. Torturously. I do learn. That will never happen again. But the fact I will not be denigrated as in the past does not mean I will become bitter and reclusive. No. I am too valuable for that. I am too worthy of love to allow damage to my life like that again. I own too large a capacity to love to allow someone to trample me again.
I not only possess the ability to stand my ground, I know I possess the strength to keep myself safe. And still I love deeply. At least, that is the aspiration.
Hmmm. These meanderings have gone on a bit. I sense I’m at a stopping point. The sun has long since dipped completely behind the foliage to my left, the shadows on the water to my right reveal the coming of night. The temperature has dropped into the 50’s and my fingers on this keyboard now stiffen with the chill.
For what it’s worth, the musings of a poet outside the poem this evening. I will attach a picture of my perch and head off to dinner and a good night’s sleep…
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Quick Note:
Becoming Who You Are
Your Kiss Hurts
Isn’t this life interesting. I decided to pick up this “draft” titled “Revelations.” I began writing this the day after my birthday, which is December 13th. At The Inspired Mic Thursday evening (January 16, 2020), I used a “revelation” in my presentation.
Time is such an aggravating concept. I just spent a couple hours writing a steamy-hot love scene. Now, it’s time I head home from my Starbucks-writing-perch, but I need to write something a bit more poetic and less intense.
Like a Lover’s Touch
Thanksgiving Day
Broken Heart