2004-02-17

Speaking with Thoreau

Alas, I have lost half of my heart today. I suppose that from her point of view, there is no justification when I witheld my current amorous affairs from her. Yes, it is true that she should have known--I failed. However, I don't see my actions as deceitful...I am scared, that is all.

I am scared for many reasons, and the main one being the fact that my affections for him grow. I battled so much with this--I did...but this was something that I could not tell her right away. I'm telling the truth...it doesn't matter, she's not reading anyway. Roger left, and I endured that...but this is unbearable. I can't do anything--I am frozen in my tracks.

Of course, I have dealt with loss, and am certainly not afraid to do so again. Life is so empty now, and there is no life in the stream or the wind--mere natural occurrences...that is all.

But I must not let myself drown in such sorrow, for I am grateful that I had the opportunity of knowing her. This is true...the friend that finally molded my soul--she cultivated it.

Now I wonder how portentious is this...who will be next to leave? Him? Will he storm out of my life like she has just done? Will he write me unsettling words that send cold shivers throughout my heart?

I must walk now--I must venture into the forest once more, and I must pass by that bridge again...I want to fish. I passed by there today and saw small ducks swimming and creating small ripples.

"Time is but a stream I go a-fishing in" no...life is but a stream I go a-fishing in. Sometimes you will make ripples in the calm waters. The ripples will start out as large undulating crests and slowly begin to fade...when they fade, the water returns to its natural state. The Lotus Blossoms will bloom, and eventually, they will die. The water will run through the many pebbles and rocks, as it engraves a story on their sandy surfaces. The words are passed on to the waters by the travelers, who stop to admire or stop to contemplate. I did that many times, and still do, only my words are spoken through sighs and salt-drenched tears that trickle down this youthful face. A youthful face with two intense black eyes and raven-black hair...but such a whithered soul.

I would speak to Thoreau, and he'd probably sit back, light a pipe, and invite me to go fishing at his beloved Walden Pond. I would go fishing, and step into the clear waters as the small trout swim by my feet. The night fog will be rich with the fresh odor of pine and burning sugar. Two squirrels will fight over an acorn that rolls around the grass and bends the delicate blades. Two lines will be cast with a soft whizzing sound and a low "splash" or "ker-plunk" at the far side of the pond.

"Henry, what would you do now?"

"Fish..." He will say, then, after fidgeting with his pole, he would continue..."Rever such moments, Libet...they are not as horrible as you think. Live and move with them, for eventually, your heart and soul will numb with the frigid ice provided by experience and time."

Henry, it is a dreadful shame that you are a dead writer...or perhaps not...perhaps you were reborn--you are me.

aeka at 5:42 p.m.