2004-06-22
The River's Course
Each moment in time is unique, for it never was, and it never will be again.
Thus, this inspires me to think of instances washed away by time, and of the painful memories that refuse to dissolve within the liquid prism of my soul.
After it rained, I sat on the wooden bench in front of the stone cathedral that has seen the full circles of life. I saw a black squirrel swiftly run by, and with each vivid shade of green met by my gaze, my imagination became lost in the profundity of my soul teeming with something of alacrity elegantly melted with pathos as the shade of orange melts with the setting sun.
I feel unlike any other human being has ever felt, and there are numerous shades and layers to this oil on canvas that is my life. I couldn't explain why it is that I write, or why it is that these words comfort me. It is their timeless beauty giving off a scent of dried roses and fresh spring lilies.
Something--I wish--needs to wrap around me, once more giving me that sense of being and fulfillment that I lost when Roger left. Yet, he needn't deserve such credit... but I am still amazed that one human being was capable of tearing down--in one instance--everything that I had believed in. There are still bits and pieces scattered in my mind like debris coming in with the morning tide. I count and recount the same stories of how he left and of how I felt--desperate, and wanting him more.
Afternoons with white fences and fall breezes, and knowing that the only thing that I am is an entity only meant to be coveted, yet never attained. Once touched, my soul shatters again and again and again until reaching the unfathomable limits of infinity. I want Roger to come back, and in all reality, I want what I felt to come back.
It has to be perfect and real and priceless when one wakes up in the morning smiling. I felt fortunate, alive, normal, fulfilled, and my soul overflowed and pathos was non-existent. It pains me to admit that because of him, I felt like the luckiest human being�and I felt like the most wretched and outcast and unwanted. What�s worse, I never met anyone that surpassed him. In March, the day of his birthday, it�s the first thing that had automatically appeared in my mind that morning�today is Roger�s birthday.
How can one despise the person that they loved?
Yet, he doesn�t hurt me anymore, and all I can do is call upon the painful pictures filtering through my head�pictures taken by time.
And we continue to sit, as I did this afternoon on that bench, and take in life and flow with it. It takes its course like any river would, at times thunders over rocks with such alacrity, only to placate itself and gently cut through the crevices. One dances, and floats within it as any dried autumn leaf would, and realize that the current is too strong and willful to allow you to turn back. Eventually, one late evening, the river will have come to its eventual stop, and life will be still and non-existent. Life is haunting like those cold waters that flow under bridges, and it's beautiful and perplexing, and ultimately, one figures out that it's best to flow with it. As the waters haunt, be haunted and surrounded by its transparent ghosts.
I am but one leaf, but I also realize that I am so much more�