| subject: | Love, Crying With Me |
| post date: | 2008-01-14 11:30:23 |
| views: 74 comments: 2 ratings: 0 |
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Love, Crying With Me
(Written 1998)
The echoes had the distinction of careening and cascading around in my head, the voices varying with repetition in pitch and intensity. The sounds would sometimes combine into harmonies of triadic beauty, and as often as not, unbearable cacophony, and vary in voice from crystalline and piercing, to barbaric and pounding. Such was the voice of love, the tiny voice that thunders.
The sounds never began. There was no single note, no vibration, no sound with which one may retrace the path of the crescendo to find it’s singular source.
The notes could, however, be retraced like the threads of a tapestry, never ending, like a Celtic weaving. They were more like raindrops. They were essentially what they always were, like raindrops were essentially water. Regardless of what manifestation they chose, they were always essentially what they were, and that had no beginning. It does not matter. It is of no significance. What is of significance, however, is the particular texture the music chose this time. In effect, they were little more than ripples on the surface of some emotional lake deep within me. The cause of these ripples was her, of course. She; their source, their purpose, their desire.
I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. I let my mind wander, and wander within. I let my Self fade into the sounds within my head. The moments passed. And I saw within my mind the architecture of my Self. I followed the lines and let them fade as well. When they came, the words came with an ease that disguised their meaning. I exhaled a purging breath and wrote…
"The night is long and particularly dark,
For those of us who hide glass hearts.
The mirror reflects even when shattered apart,
And agony brings out the lover’s highest art."
The poem complete, I exhaled and left the pen on the paper. She taught me a new way to love, a new compassion. All of these emotions were little more than cracks in a glass heart. The light would trickle in, then, refracting in prismatic brilliance illuminate my soul. It is over now. The story, the tragedy. It is time for closure. The journey, like the poem is ended, complete. Complete. I close my eyes and let the thoughts drift into oblivion. They want to leave, they want to drift in an endless sleep.
Wordlessly, I let them go, never to think them again.
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