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I fall in love a thousand times a day.
I have a tendency to romanticize things. While this can be fun, I sometimes take it beyond what is probably advisable. For example, it's likely not a good thing when you catch yourself muttering the following while refilling your morning cup of tea:
"Even if his sexual appetites are obviously complementary to yours, seeing as he chosen being with someone else, the fact that you gaze at his picture and thinking of him all day long doesn't necessarily mean he is, in fact your soul-mate. Clearly, if he was your cosmic match your forehead is the one he kissed good night right now."
or,
"Just because his poetry mentions a person with dark hair and dark eyes doesn't necessarily mean that he's writing about you."
or,
"Look, chances are, you're never going to run into him in first class on the way to Montreux, because vampires don't require trains for domestic travel."
But, the thing is, not all romantic extrapolation remain firmly anchored in the imagination. Somehow, harmless curiosity over a blue hand impression on a bald head ultimately turned into a sentry of curved pine trees, the foaming grin of the Atlantic, and the quite, loving creak of a porch swing. I've learned that there are some things that cannot be overly-romanticized, that my brain is inherently limited by what I know, and therefore, is unable to architect the complex system of synaptic bursts and transmissions that lit up like blood oranges when we first kissed, when we first fucked and when we first loved.
So i wonder, is it all right for me to think on how the calla lilies will blaze against the sand?
"Even if his sexual appetites are obviously complementary to yours, seeing as he chosen being with someone else, the fact that you gaze at his picture and thinking of him all day long doesn't necessarily mean he is, in fact your soul-mate. Clearly, if he was your cosmic match your forehead is the one he kissed good night right now."
or,
"Just because his poetry mentions a person with dark hair and dark eyes doesn't necessarily mean that he's writing about you."
or,
"Look, chances are, you're never going to run into him in first class on the way to Montreux, because vampires don't require trains for domestic travel."
But, the thing is, not all romantic extrapolation remain firmly anchored in the imagination. Somehow, harmless curiosity over a blue hand impression on a bald head ultimately turned into a sentry of curved pine trees, the foaming grin of the Atlantic, and the quite, loving creak of a porch swing. I've learned that there are some things that cannot be overly-romanticized, that my brain is inherently limited by what I know, and therefore, is unable to architect the complex system of synaptic bursts and transmissions that lit up like blood oranges when we first kissed, when we first fucked and when we first loved.
So i wonder, is it all right for me to think on how the calla lilies will blaze against the sand?
This is the time of night I try to either sleep or write, usually with little success. Pacing the floors and checking the locks. twice. Tossing and turning and occasionally hitting a key on my laptop just to keep it from going dormant. Just so that I know that it’s waiting. Nearly strangling in sheets that have twisted into 800 thread count tourniquets. Until the amount of hours left before my alarm dwindles to far too few, and I can hear birds chirping in the dark. Eventually my laptop and I, we spoon until morning. Which always comes to soon.
I had this thought in mind during a conversation I shared with a friend this past week that I’ve waited until now to commit to words. Having the internet obviously helps, but I think letting it grow a bit in my mind has helped. I don’t know if it’s really original or whether or not it changes anyone’s views on love, but I certainly hope it provides some food for thought.
I kept thinking about the nature of language and just how difficult it is to pick certain ones up. There’s this impasse and frustration attached to foreign languages, especially those with different writing and phonetic systems. But I feel like identities are sort of language, too – rich in complexities, nuances, and exceptions. The language of our thoughts and actions are a special voice that defines who we are.
And whether or not this parallels the idea of a soulmate, I find myself asking about all the important people I value in my life. This select group of people in my life are sacred for their dedication and ability to develop a fluency in who I am just as I might develop that for them. Perhaps love is a heightened form of this: a fluency to such a vast degree. What more can we want as human beings but to have someone fluent in the very essence that is us? To have some speak our language and resonate with our frequencies?
But at the same time, consistent practice for the fluency in one language may inadvertently (or possibly intentionally) disrupt the fluency of other languages. Have you not felt that you have centered your life around someone and tried to become as fluent as possible in them only to lose them in the end? Notice how friends, family, and other potential love interests seem at that moment more distant. If you don’t use it, you lose it. You lose the words, the connections you had with people just as a result of a lack of practice. You can even lose fluency in yourself, especially if you’ve constructed your life around others. This is what often intensifies the void when it comes to define you more than yourself.
This process of learning “soul-speech” can be as easy or as painstaking as the individual might make it out to be. I feel like the greater issue is the commitment to learning the language of another person, even if it may result in partial fluency in broken words and bits lost in translation. Love is the effort, the time spent, and the heart involved. I think we ultimately find ourselves synthesizing into our own languages of self what we have borrowed or gleaned from the languages of others, and it is interesting how our respective connections make us such melanges of these different human pieces.
I find it so beautiful to think that language is so fluid; everyone we happen to come into contact with may change the very language of the self.
Carl Jung, in this light, is incredibly right:
“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”
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| ❤ ❤ |
Last night, I fell asleep with you, though here you were not. Your tender whisper carried on the tail of the wind to close my eyes, such as the night air comes to shut up the frail buds of the roses against the hostility of darkness.
This morning, I woke to your kiss, though many barren and wretched miles existed between our lips. It caught me in sleep and brought me forth into the living realm; tugging me gently, as I willingly broke free of pathetic sleep, into our divine shared reality.
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Doing the right thing, making the sensible choice, always doing what is best, might be the smart thing to do. But she was pretty young when she realized bad decisions make the most extraordinary tales. She found out about this, because making bad decisions is a thing that comes quite naturally to her. No worries though, because if there is one thing she loves it is having wonderful tales to tell. She loves it more than success in the eyes of the world, more than money, more than anything. Telling tales is what she does best. She helps people with her stories, makes them feel understood, makes them feel better about themselves, about their own bad decisions. And she makes them laugh, hysterically, at her, at her mistakes. First she lives through her stories and then she tells them. That’s what she does, that’s what she will always do. She made her weakness her strength.
There once were two people who didn't have names. One was referred to as The Speaker whilst the second went by The Other. The pair lived together in a place that was both somewhere and something.
It was a nice enough place where the birds sang, flowers grew and the air smelt pleasant, but it wasn't perfect because as life too often teaches us nothing ever is. What transformed the place the place that was both somewhere and something from a pretty little area into somewhere distinctly repugnant were the people who lived there with our pair. These people were different, they did not understand The Speaker and The Other, and these people ridiculed them, called them names. These people hated the two lovers. Scorn poured from their mouths and flooded over the two.
And The Other would've cried. Would have. But The Speaker was always there to hold The Other, and whisper sweet dreams of running away into the Other's ear. Sweet, unrealistic sentences that evaporated the mocking waves sent by the people who didn't understand.
So far nothing's changed, and nothing will change. In the world there will always be people like The Speaker and The Other and there will always be people like those who laughed at them. However it doesn't matter, because deep down, The Speaker will always have The Other and The Other will always have The Speaker.
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| This mess on my bed room floor means I'm working. |
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| "Scribbling is what I do" |
I wonder if there ever comes a point in time when we stop exploring ourselves as human beings; Deciding finally, that we know who we are and what we want and what we need, in order to feel satisfied with our lives? More likely.
I fear a moment simply arrives for each of us, in which we find ourselves too exhausted to keep searching;
In which we just abandon hope of ever reaching that state of untainted bliss.
Deciding it is time, at last ... to grow up and leave such naive illusion behind.
I hope I'm wrong and that such moment never arrives; or if it does, that it is my last.
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| Picnic |
My heart still longs for you.
I wish I heard you say you loved me in your heart every day - that the vibrations of those words, off your tongue would bounce back into my brain and echo through my head.
I wish I knew what you were feeling. That the visions of us, months, years from now, after other women and men had glided through our lives. The vision of us amongst a body of water, and an excessive amount of noise, could you then say, you never stopped loving me.
I wish we were not this dissected thing, a friendship so blatantly scarred and foiled and so impersonal, like a strangers breath upon my shoulder - I so desperately want to see your face and how it looks at me. The play behind your dark eyes, your brain dancing, thoughts leaping to the conclusions that my eyes say back.
I feel like running away constantly, and I know where. I just want to run into this infinite abyss where I could pretend you finally don’t exist.
