In a society where respect becomes a rarity based upon an inverse proportion as gauged by advance of age, it is all too easy to engage in chronic misanthropy. The ague of the monotony of marriage or the absence of interdependence works its mischief all to well if left to fester for too long. Despite the resultant vacancy of passion behind the words, the expression of the ever nagging desire for finding one’s genetic opposite lingers like Hamlet’s ghost. And if I were to compose some embodiment for that long forlorn wish, it might go something like this.
That eternal silly girl for me and the woman she might be
Sad conclusions swept past-ward then freshly forward
To twinkle in those playful lilting eyes as an unexpected wink
To say which one’s ahead of thou, no one has to think
For at the worst, to show your best, by being what she needs
The umbrella of intimate companionship casts itself thinly these days in the purchase of ongoing security through the doling out measured affection, ‘quid pro quo’. A bad bargain in too many cases as increasing toleration soon replaces the sugary bonds of love. This might describe the eventual feeling by both of, “what the fuck and I doing here?”, that too many experience after the tarnish of one’s expectations in a year or two.
In distant hindsight from a lonely lofty tower overlooking Munchkin valley far below one can be occasionally swept away by an emotionally moving Disney approximation of the rare commodity of mutual felicity seemingly at its finest. Instantaneous cooperation bereft of any apparent impulse to deviate or question. The accentuated use of the spy glass from these far away heights seeming to erase those vague personal memories of the constant turmoil in trying to figure out just who that restless stranger is in the bed next to you.
The one who is equally challenged by that same task. No blame or stain upon either party, of course, for leaning too many hard lessons in the trenches whatever the outcome. Then trading their childish expectations for a trip down the aisles of modern dating through the Walmart’s of love to pick the most appropriate flavor by virtue of rocky past experience. All this lingering mischievous magic caused by some indefinite momentary flicker of a spark somewhere deeply buried in a millennium of tedium past in the interim. So like all those recovering addicts line dancing stepping their way through life, the occasional breath of innocence can unlock that early glass menagerie citadel for a brief instant and remind one that shit happens, despite an longer set of life’s lessons accumulated rules.