She lives in a fantasy world entertaining solutions which do not exist. -Ret
I write on a Friday afternoon.
The silence surrounds me. This silence stills my movements. My hips do not dance in this chamber of echoes.
I begin to mumble, to stutter, to pause. My mind wanders to another place, not here, a place where your words spill onto me. A place where your hand traces my lines, where mine return the favour, an oft traveled pathway, my finger traces your forearm, your shoulder, the bend of your neck, the line of your nose.
I pull myself back.
This love affair is lonely. We are bodies uniting in stilted moments. We are gorgeous grindings. We are glorious staccato breaths, arched backs pressing into three fingers, my mind imagines tomorrows sunrise- the waking, to You.
I am heartache and heartbeats and heartfelt.
My friend tells me all the most important things in life are learned through painful experience, her suffering necessary before the enlightenment. Hours of crying, raw awareness of failures, deep sadness and brutal truths.
The contrast of missing someone makes us appreciate the return; absence makes the heart grow fonder…
Many believe someone comes across hard times, pain, illness and loss because a higher power has something to teach them.
I reject it all.
We learn in hard times because we strive to pull something good out of the mess. The good is always there, the mess, fleeting.
We learn from hope- that belief in something good, something so far beyond pain and sorrow.
The human spirit tells us today will be a better day. When we listen to those internal, often silenced voices…when we give our heart’s response the credit, cut off the attribution to pain we feel the sunshine, hear all the music, balance atop our spinning world. Let’s stop glorifying pain with a capital P.
Yes, sometimes we have to sit in the middle of the mess and feel, and own, and accept the great sadness- and then be still – so we can hear the lesson.
It’s not the sadness that is required for the learning; it’s the listening.
|Heyyyy,These emails sound like my heart.
I ask, I repeat, I ask again: Why? What has changed?
These empty emails have no voice.
Please, talk with me. Share your words?
For a day, for two for 52 hours?
The truth cannot be screaming any more loudly than your silence.
Painful doubts, repeated questions, replay of the last time we sat together, stood touching, smelled each other’s morning skin. That soft, sleepy skin in the bend of your shoulder, where I rest my head when my eyes are heavy with sleep.
Your friends cannot comfort me. I know your heart. I thought. I. knew. your. heart.
Mine is an reflective pain; the less you share the more I hurt.
My body folds in half. My face contorts.
Okii, yes, I accept it all. Give me your silence.
I’ll hold our wounded, twisted 8 months under the water until we drown.
– T’s gurl
This time, there are tears. Bartender? Another.
#for Reticent Mental Property. Images courtesy of the web.
Because of you, I love…
She didn’t believe. Until, him.