I Hate It More Now That I Understand
I could never understand. How can you love, ferociously, painfully, honestly, colorfully, alive with it, on fire with it, burn with it through day and night, how can you love, and then, not. Simply realize one morning that the sun looks different and that this world you have woken to is not the one you fell asleep on last night. How could one search for the change and find that what is no longer there is the love you thought you lived because of. Random, fragile, of ASTROLOGICAL importance, and then, well, truthfully quite insignificant. Like all things beautiful and soul touching and magical, it is and then, just like that, it is no longer.
Suddenly you are left groping blindly for what used to fill your chest, lift your feet from earth. Feeling beyond reason you search yourself in disbelief. Only to find that indeed it is gone, your heart and mind slightly stained with its sweetly-burnt scent like the sticky residue lining the inside of a delicate glass pipe, a drug smoked, a high had and then softly forgotten. The whisper of memory. The emptiness inside of you fills with thoughts, observations, obscure and relentless. You are aware of the indention left by that awesome love on your life, on your sleep, breath, hopes, existence, just as you feel the prickly scratch of a wool sweater long after its taken off. Panicked you grasp at shreds of memories, silky ribbons that trail away and you pray never to forget, swearing that had you known it would be gone you would have journal-ed every word, every moment. Would have recorded, taken pictures, painted and scribbled, forgetting sleep and food.
You would have lived an insomniac’s static electric life so that you didn’t miss a thing. Only still, I swear to you, in the black and white photographs of thought and dreams and memories there are still details lost, edges growing blunt and watercolors run n i n g .
It was that I never understood. Now I do, still I hate that such wonderful things must pass. It is life: grow, bloom, wither, fade.
Suddenly you are left groping blindly for what used to fill your chest, lift your feet from earth. Feeling beyond reason you search yourself in disbelief. Only to find that indeed it is gone, your heart and mind slightly stained with its sweetly-burnt scent like the sticky residue lining the inside of a delicate glass pipe, a drug smoked, a high had and then softly forgotten. The whisper of memory. The emptiness inside of you fills with thoughts, observations, obscure and relentless. You are aware of the indention left by that awesome love on your life, on your sleep, breath, hopes, existence, just as you feel the prickly scratch of a wool sweater long after its taken off. Panicked you grasp at shreds of memories, silky ribbons that trail away and you pray never to forget, swearing that had you known it would be gone you would have journal-ed every word, every moment. Would have recorded, taken pictures, painted and scribbled, forgetting sleep and food.
You would have lived an insomniac’s static electric life so that you didn’t miss a thing. Only still, I swear to you, in the black and white photographs of thought and dreams and memories there are still details lost, edges growing blunt and watercolors run n i n g .
It was that I never understood. Now I do, still I hate that such wonderful things must pass. It is life: grow, bloom, wither, fade.
1 Comments:
Its a beautiful fragment, and your hart, your emotions really come out of it. They keep ones attention tuned to the text. Sad and beautiful at the same time.
Its like a book fragment, a book one opens, and can not turn his/her gaze away.
A magical book, closed at first, not looking very sepetical, until one opens it, and reads what is written, then time and things pass by.
So much is the power of what you write, it is magical, but sad, a live, and just text.
You are really a gifted and very good writer, your texts are enchanting, magical, real life, emotional, deeply, seducing the reader to read on, hard to let go, and when it stops one wonders, and doesn't know what to say or wirte after having completed that.
I do not know the sound of your voice, but I have a feeling, that next to being a writer (sorry I don't know if there is a female form of that word) you would also be a enchanted storyteller or telster (thats more dutch, but a female form), perhaps only for a small group but still I think that you would be good in it.
If you like, there is an american/canadian website that deals with that, as there will be others. Do you like wolves ? There story, there view of things ?
If you may, then perhaps, we could work together on a little story on wolves, from the wolves viewpoint, not ours.
The offer is completly free. I must admit, that I might be jumping to fast a head, but I do not often encounter magical places like your blog. Its enchanting, magical, time stands till with each fragment I read.
My own use of english, mostly about difficult subjects, is so much colder then is yours. I have much left to learn.
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