Musings, Pain, Poetry
Comments 4

It Was You…

 

I first saw you the other morning in a pedestrian tunnel,
Striding; purposeful, compelled, as all of us were in that world –
Though some were more driven than others.
And as our eyes met, yours, and mine, you stumbled;
Your step faltered, then recovered – a hitch; insufficient to
Elicit the notice of those who crowded around you.
But I saw. I knew. And you saw I was there – and aware, of you.
And I also know, that until that very moment, I had lost the dream
Of but some few hours before,
When you and I were one.

It was you. Oh, sweet holy bliss, it was – and you knew it, too.
There was shock in your eyes, as there must have been in mine.
But there was also fear in yours, as you fled upon an already chosen way.
That, at least, was not a dream. We were there, you, and I.

The actual dream was different from so many others of its kind –
Where one or the other is uneven in emotion, in commitment and desire.
No! This vision was of equal, unbridled passion; freely given, freely returned.
There was no dissolution into pain and blame.
There was no sadness, nor was there fear.
There would be no end to our love.
We were truly, consciously and deliriously one.

How can this be?
How can a righteous god of love treat a devoted disciple such?
The one dream, misplaced upon awakening;
The chance encounter, doomed even as it occurred.
Many the steps since upon the unyielding surface of that passageway –
Echoing dully with so many others, equally gray –
But never again the sight of my love.
It was to be my only knowledge,
Of the loss of what might have been.

I first saw you the other night – alone in a crowd, sitting in a bar –
As was I…
Your eyes drew mine,
Those eyes that knew mine,
So near, and yet so far away from what might have been.
Your eyes granted our regret as you left, alone,
That we might have, that we should have left together.
But the ring on your finger barred that road from travel.
We never spoke – not with words – nor have I seen you since.
It might have been, but it will not be.

I first saw you the other day on a subway, with your man,
Arguing. Oh, why must we fight, and struggle so
Against that which drives us towards each other?
Why all the fuss over such a thing as love?
Every curve of your body, the very posture you
Aimed at him spoke of your adoration. The lay of your
Arms seemingly ached to embrace him once more.
Every fiber of your body screamed your love for all to see.
But your eyes… those eyes… so cold; as calculating as
Ice, and a chill surged through my body; communicated
Through eyes aimed at another. Your eyes, yielded to the
Dawning of self-worship, yet sightless in the twilight of your
Ascendency. For he did not see. How could he? He was in
Love, but not yet advanced upon a path of revelation. And so
He did not see what others, what I could have warned him of;
This was not love, but parody; a distortion of love, manipulative,
Intent upon bending another to her will. And I, merely from
Witnessing another’s misfortune, was sped uncounted miles
Upon my way, towards a fuller understanding of what love is.
I wish for them both an equal share of that road…

There are those who believe in true love – who search for
Their ‘soul-mate’, though they cannot wait for his or her arrival.
But this is not love. Love is not a commodity to be traded,
A model to be upgraded when a better version comes along.
That is not love. Love is a commitment: to a person, an idea,
A circumstance. Love is the other person.
If you cannot see this, then you’ve not looked closely enough
With the eyes of love.
Seldom is the circumstance ideal, yet this is when
Love flourishes; in the willingness to work for love, to turn
Any occurrence into an ongoing revelation of love.
Love is perfect – the incident upon which it’s applied; rarely.

I do not believe there is only one person for me, somewhere,
Waiting to be found. I would not so limit the god of love.
There have been many for whom I would’ve given up my search.
The one who told me there were many reasons we should be together,
But that that opportunity had passed. Or the one I thought was you,
And came upon in all power, the strength of my love heralding me
Like a mighty wind – it was not you, and she shied, fearful – and I had to
Bank the fire within me, lest we be destroyed by our misunderstandings.
There have been, and will be, many… if only they knew it of themselves.

For if you’re not one of the one’s destined for me, then I’m not yet open
To the gifts I am being advanced, but behaving more like a
Spoiled child at some party, insisting upon being presented
Only with joys of my own design.
It would greatly speed our journey upon the way, if you, too,
Could recognize the joy you’ve been offered. If you cannot
Know yourself, then know yourself by my reaction to you.
And let us then grow into our respective revelations.

Ever does the fairytale Princess live happily ever after.
Ever does the Prince slay the dragon and rescue his fair damsel.
Yet all who would search for their fairytale lover have
Failed in their reading, if this is all they bring from that journey.
It’s not just a tale of longing and fulfillment that the old writers
Would have you know. It is also a tale of the cost of that longing;
And of how much you might be asked to pay, to live such a life.

Many’s the tale that ends with the hero wandering among far and
Distant lands; forever lost to family and loved-ones left behind.

Not even fairytales always have a fairytale ending.

If you would live a life such as this, it might be best if you read
All the literature, before committing yourself.

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4 Comments

  1. Liesl says

    I’ve never like the term ‘soul-mate’, or the idea that whom ever I choose to be with ought to ‘complete’ me. We make choices. We live, we love, we loose because choices are made within and outside of relationship and there are consequences. The pangs of loss, the pangs of running into a former lover, the pangs of a chance encounter with someone new – it’s all delicious in its way and awful, too.

    What would happen if, IF, we got our wish, our fairytale? What then? If a girl really knew her Cinderella, or even any other Grimm un-doctored by Disney, would she truly dream of a prince charming? Or would any boy really want to go to the lengths of Sleeping Beauty’s prince charming just to win the girl? The fairytale only really gets started when the book is closed and we’re left with “…happily ever after”. Ever after is a very long time. A lot can happen between ‘the end’ and ‘ever after’.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Oh, but surely the fairytale (adventure/narrative/whatever you want to call it) doesn’t begin after the book has ended. Surely each and every day is a part of the ongoing adventure. GK Chesterton said that ‘an inconvenience was only an adventure wrongly considered, and that an adventure was only an inconvenience rightly considered.’ I have taken that to mean that the only adventure we have any control over is that of opening our door upon a brand new day, or an hour, or a moment in time.
      Maybe the fairytale isn’t so much a fantasy, as it is prologue; telling us how we might look at things – giving us one methodology by which we might interpret our given circumstances…
      Yes, there are consequences from past actions, and if we’re diligent enough, we are aware of them before we act, rather than suffering from them after the fact. Yet, there are pangs left over, from when we were less than diligent. And try as I might, I have not been able to leave every lover in a positive manner, with an ongoing relationship that will not haunt me at some future date. Pangs, and pain, and encounters… it is awful… if by the choice of that word you mean ‘full of awe…’
      You wish to write of Wendy’s adventures on this side of Wonderland. I would have wanted Wendy to realize that she could have brought Wonderland home with her, after all… Those who would not understand this might never have really been to Wonderland in the first place. Ot they’ve forgotten it. But then, the writers of such tales have warned us about that, too…
      Oh, how truly marvelous were those ancient writers of such tales.
      Miles, then, have I to go, ‘ere I can sleep. And what better bed-time story, when at last that sleep approaches, than the tale of that bounder Mr. Theory, and his marvelous, ridiculous adventures in the Land of Fairy?
      And who could ever write such a tale… except the bounder, himself…?

      Liked by 2 people

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