Alright! I admit it, I can’t sleep. Who can sleep anymore at this age? You are more restless at night than you are in day because you have to deal with yourself. There is nowhere to hide. You can try to dive deep within your dreams but you know it is only going toe last for so long. And then you are just sitting here, antsy and disturbed with nothing to satisfy you.
And so I find myself back here once again. Resting up against that point of fear trying to propel myself forward. Loss. The loss of illusion with constancy. Perpetual whims followed with joy. Over ebullient words knowing frailty from those that aren’t around. And how tenuous it is to know from any given point that they can be no more. That is why I live in a cold kingdom with stone and ice. The solidity of emptiness. No land of this can be no worse. How can love be found with anyone within this universe?
I have been here before. And it is to my great shame that I was a coward before. That I could not take up that challenge for fear of losing someone so wonderful. The silence spiriting them away. To call it other than my own fault. Too well known, or more. It was my decision to not try. All the kisses and tenderness that has been missed. All the hopes that could have been shared. And the dreams that could have been mutually enjoyed without grasping or grabbing. But yet not withering away. But to sail constantly along. I am a fool, and I fear that I will always be such unless I can change that. Because, what else is there that has majesty in this world but those feelings of being at peace and one? All things to all people. Everything wrapped up in a singular idea, desire, hope.
I am short unwanted misfit loving who I can. When I am able. Those rare opportunities that fall in-between. Those fallow dry spells of solitude and being alone. How far from this ivory tower I look down and wish the grass that warmth. For the sake of pleasure of what could have been. Like sand in the palm of my hand. Only so long before carelessness or an ill wind will steal it away. I am left empty with sweaty palms of memory of what could and might have been. Oh dear! Passion and pain. Passion is pain ever masquerading as happiness. Desolation on a tightrope always desire to be within a chasm of waiting amidst mundaneity. Things as they should be, but never are. How can one find one’s sorrow? How can one suppress one’s joy? How is it possible to not float away like a bubble? Uncontrolled and unrefined. Is there no solution to this dilemma? To find friend, stable happiness, an attraction that might go further into something else. Or is this just froth upon a storm crossed sea? Battered up high in this conclusion. It seems though a fair response in the solution to this dilemma is only its experience where this involvement is an idea de-evolved and disappeared.
How often those women I have known have tossed my affections to the grass! All my boyish effort gone awry. That I have to sit upon this stone of sadness and rest it on my shoulder to carry around. In so many years to find a way to cast it off to begin again. This lodestone of love. This journey of Sisyphus up the hill of desire for so simple a something as a touch. A simple embrace. And that kind of warmth that goes beyond the ages. Sensation perhaps? Shared molecules rubbing up against each other superficially exchanged. But, seemingly never lasting. No static or stasis allowed! Only want to drive us forth, each in our own different way. Two ships scraping past having collided unwarily within the empty night. A view full of the deck of one from t he bridge of the other. That momentary instant an internal surrender to memory. How sad and how magnificent! No, I would not talk that away, or try to explain it. But just hold on as long as possible. That is the beauty and genius of it! To hold on before the freezing water pull you down. From below to reach forth up to a surface disappearing above to remain poised in that direction. How the moth loves the flame! And how the flame cannot help itself but consume the moth. This is love. This is how I have always lived my life.
Well. The well is a foothold. A hand clasped on cold stone. From anyone’s position on high to look both up and down, and outward. The farther one sees the more one feels the majesty of the world.
Yet one rationalizes the fact of how really small they are. How strange to be so small and yet see so large? And that desire to climb ever further upward to attenuate that feeling. That need to touch, to embrace, to feel one blending into another and feel that other within. How happy and yet so tragic! For like everything, it is only a momentary desire. A momentary feeling. For one must ever move on. Perhaps we are all in an ocean of indeterminate proportion? And as we float by, we touch and embrace and seek to find some stability. Which of course is impossible because like any other molecule we are eternally destined to be bumped along. One bump after another. To grasp at happiness and have it speed through ones fingers like the waves. Again and again to rediscover it and then lose it. That’s too hard a burden to bear. How solid one feels in one’s own arms? How solid one feels in another’s. And yet, and yet, and yet the story will go on.
This fiction of change layered upon that which one has to expect and to accept. Cessation and renewal. How wonderful to pass the torch and then to realize that it gets passed around. And all for what? To relive and live in yet another day this meaningless purpose driving one blindly forth all substantiated by the vague memories of a past that one struggles everyday to regain. Something to call one’s own. Something to stand beside and claim ownership of. How foolish this man! How persistent, this woman? Of all that one could have designated within the boundaries of this bi-polar world of left and right and up and down and forward and backward. Of cold and hot, and old and not, of few and many, and pinch and penny. And genius like pearls to be found. How silly and stupid it all is! I have to wonder what bones I will leave in this strange amalgam of chaos that I rest within?
What shape next? What form, if form there be, does one take on to experience all there can be? So, a grasping groping ever crawling forward to vaunt, to vault, to tumble, to march, to canter. All manner of ways of moving and to be moved. The responsibly reprehensible universe of this and that and so much more. Yes, it is so. To grow to love and desire to be loved. To lose it and regain it. To try to understand it. And to be perplexed. Why then can one understand in no other way but by its loss? All is passing in this universe in constant transition, and free fall, and in striding forth to try to attempt to exercise the rationale wherein nothing else should exist. Its chaos confined, hemmed in, measured out in small bits until a sympathetic harmony is arrived at.