Four writers for the price of one blog
♦ I was looking through my work today, doing some creative inventory, and found this prosetry tucked in between a story I’d left unfinished. It’s been so long that I found myself experiencing it as if I hadn’t been the one to write it. It made me wistful in a way I haven’t been in a while. Ah, memory. – X
You’re still so real to me, even when I wish that you’d become two-dimensional – flatten out to fit the pages of history – but you remain a living breathing entity that fills me with the sweetest longing whenever a place or person conjures you up.
I know now the essence of love. There is eternity in it.
You are eternal, this feeling is, even though I don’t dare utter your name when I dream so as not to ruin the peace of the one who sleeps beside me.
This is not romance, a maudlin feeling manufactured to rouse emotion.
It is pain, the one cloud crossing the moon, a shadow that’s felt but not seen except for those who are looking, but I wouldn’t give it up for anything or anyone else on Earth.
It is bedrock truth, when others try to stretch the evanescent into a lifetime of pleasant lies. I’m not saying that I don’t lie to myself. I lie every day, to everyone, shading my eyes and looking into the horizon for someone when you are so close to me. I lie every time someone asks why it is that something empty doesn’t allow itself to be filled – the hysterical blindness of lust.
It is faith, when I once did not believe in what I could not see. I closed my eyes to it, but held your love close to my chest and it enveloped me. I wanted to only see the pain and ignore the beauty in it, in you, but I couldn’t.
It’s a seed, a promise of something so much bigger than what I could’ve sustained at the time. Selfishness is self-loathing badly wrapped in egotism. Loss opened my eyes, broadened my narrow view of love into something that still grows today.
I’m an acolyte of emotion waiting to share all I’ve learned,
The fullness of who I am,