|
2005-02-12 23:03:17 ET In another time, another place, there was something both beautiful and tragic, both temporary and timeless of the explanation of her beauty, her grace, and I was the luckiest to see this and, youthfully selfish, I sought to hold it to my heart hiding it from the rest of the world. Thinking that I could steal away what I wanted no one else to find. That I could shield what I wanted to never see stripped apart by any other who even vainly believed that they could come close to feeling what I had felt when she smiled. And this was pure, this was beauty in it's finest. I lost it because I couldn't hope myself enough into her heart, into her mind, and I couldn't believe myself worthy enough for her eyes. What time when I felt so alive and yet so alone? Where does that place find a home? Is it common to feel such a way where to be looked upon for one instant with love and kindness gives meaning to which before there was none? There were only tears and pain and sorrow and this melodrama of instant gratification gone horribly awry and to find something so filling was pure storybook. A trivial work of fiction filled ceaselessly with nouns and adjectives and verbs. Action upon action they flowed through but never coming close to the tragedy of reality, of what is drilled into us as children as being real. Is this love? Is this fantasy? The words on the page were alive but were they enough for life or were they but a cessation to existence’s heavy toll upon heart’s brittle form? The wise saw this as resembling a fall from peace and from conscious into a state of ambiguous discernment from nature. We circulate and intertwine ourselves around it never knowing whether truth can be found in a heartbeat. Is that faith? Foolishly I resemble the same confusion that the basis for every scientific theory and plotline to every film rest upon because I had dreamt too late into my own verve of time. A fold where I found love and love never found me out. Who is the lucky one now? |
