Saturday, November 22, 2014

Aug 27 - Letters to Luna - A packaged mistake pt 3

I wrote that about four years ago.  The idea of why we are here drives me to recognize the opportunities to fit into the curve of other people’s puzzle pieces like that light beam to be part of the one united path.  My life has led me to see living just a basic human life in such a prism of colors.  I know other people do see the same thing; maybe not the same way, maybe not all the time, but at least in moments we all see it.  Maybe some people run away and hide confused when they do, but others dive into art, science, and the fields of empathy to be present and work.  The evidence is everywhere, but so is the greed and selfishness that eradicates the good. 

I saw you as you described your art therapy and dancing.  I saw you in your books.  I saw you as one of those good people, who might understand some of the realm I am attempting to describe.  I have not met many I felt I had a chance to build something with and the recognition of the loss of that potential is why I am communicating this now.

Most people just do not want to see the world this way.  People do not want to know.  They do not want to think about it.  They want to find their little piece of economic or social standing, cling, and protect.  The will give as long as their nest is not at risk.  This is basic genetic evolution, but as I have written in other pieces before, true evolution comes through the spiritual recognition of empathy to transcend the instinctual compulsions of our selfish genes to borrow Dawkins’ term.

However mad the world is would worsen if we were to fully understand.  Humans cannot handle such truths.  We need to feel inspired.  We need the lies we believe and the blanket of ignorance to coddle us with faith and hope.  Do I have the truth; hell no, but I pursue knowledge, consciousness, understanding.  That to me is a world of reading, writing, art, conversations.  It is often detracted by the circumstantial distractions of the commercial, the political, the religious, and the material. 

Fortunately I believe humanity is full of dreamers, artists, lovers, and souls exploding.  We all have it in us.  I have faith in the immense goodness of that common fever, but it is a fight each person takes up from within the self.

Writers struggle with hope and faith like Alzheimer’s patients tested on world history.  The old answers don’t work.  They are still in us somewhere, but they just don’t fit in the blank and we can’t spit them out.  The further we go down the rabbit hole the more jumbled we realize where we started was.  The number of leaks that get solved compared to the new conundrums that appear is increasingly daunting as the universe folds back her lips. 

It makes writers into raving cranks on street corners.  It is no wonder most people do not even want to look.  Just give them the glass.  Drink up!  The first answer was right.  Trust it, be happy.

To know the car accident or heart attack is coming three years and two months from now would just obliterate it all.  It is why writers are madmen and every writer needs a muse or else we suffocate.  We dream.  We see God everywhere like chickenpox on bodies lumbering interconnecting it all, even the atheists among us.  Especially the atheists, that’s why we can’t shut the hell up.  

Maybe you are a natural muse for a reason.  That is something spiritual, something I do not have to fully understand, but I know it is foolish to ignore it or pretend I did not feel at home in that current.  You have found home in New Orleans.  One only has to look to the streets for the nine Greek muses: Calliope (poetry), Clio (history), Erato (love), Euterpe (music), Melpomene (tragedy), Polyhymnia (hymns), Terpsichore (dance), Thalia (comedy) and Urania (astronomy).  To go from Terpsichore to Calliope is about five blocks.  To ask a muse to be concerned beyond her divinity is eternity. 

Serendipity happens in the blink of the present.  To plan or confine her is to kill her spirit.  Luna the poet part of me felt closest to you in the aroma of the muse.  Maybe you are meant to find many artists.  Maybe you are scared of the idea of love as unnatural.  All I know is, I wanted to be around you, not put a bushel over your candle.  I wanted to share the passion you inspired and see where that might go. 

I think about the inner you.  I was not sure how much of this was you simply not being attracted to the human that I am, you being in a limited phase of what kind of offering you wish or are able to provide out of yourself, but the rigidity in the word never used in both of your emails leaves me now in this moment to see you like a crying light.  “Let I shy cry under the light, Let I cry sight a child at night, I can have courage to receive your love, I can step steps follow my blind inside.” 

There is a chamber in you soft and maybe scraped from others and from past scraping done to others that listens to songs like these.  I think about how she thinks she will ever receive and accept love to utter such fence posts of never.  I know that never is not about me.  It is who you accept yourself as someone that can never be.  A portion of the rules were inked from a place of pain or pragmatism putting a circle of light around you.  Whether that is a spotlight or a jail I am not sure, but I imagine if that is the case it probably depends on the day. 

Every human requires love, not the same dose or pharmacological formula, but to strain the receiving cells for love out our blood makes our bodies overcompensate like an immune disease.  We attack ourselves in other areas, domestic becomes alien. 

The word partner probably feels like prison to you.  Sometimes it does to me too.  I have had struggles with the idea of another person stealing my time to write, and me wanting to just be by myself away fighting my inner war.  I do not like to be watched or to feel like I am responsible for alleviating another’s boredom.  I am safer as a singularity.  That concept is one where I wonder sometimes if the universe/God set me on the schedule to live a life primarily alone. 

My barely-see-her daughter and my aborted children sometimes make me feel like I was not meant for a certain type of life.  I was meant to dedicate the short time I have to other endeavors and people, but at a distance through the written word, never with a partner to aid me; it may be a quest I am tasked to complete alone.  Stark loneliness sharpens the tools I need to write and do whatever it is I am supposed to provide with this life. 

Sometimes I feel like a phony, a fake-cripple Charlatan, a god-damn asshole making excuses.  I do not have a damn bit of the world figured out.  What the hell makes me think I should be writing about anything?  I don’t know shit.  I am guessing, but at least I tried.  I swung the bat, got on stage and got mocked.  I felt the brick hit my cheeks.  I tried.

Sometimes I have fought depression like eating apple pie.  Mouth that shit up, it’s tasty like sugar, fuel for the pyre.  I have stared down the darkness and said yeah I should feel that way for this phase.  Not forever, but for now I should feel this way and while I am here I will get the most of it and work the muscle to tear tissue to come back soaked and stronger.

Sometimes I accept my solitary nature, others I rebel and fecklessly seek the comfort of love’s empathy and understanding.  It typically ends in me realizing the same indelible irony.  I am a poet flooded in emotional fractals shimmering in life’s rays.  I can see the intricacies, sense the tannins in the wine, hear the delineations of pitch, and notice the angles of the echappe as she lands, but I can never drink or touch.  I am destined to live a life outside the city gates.  The thing that makes me feel so profoundly funnels esoterically into a foreign language no one seems to comprehend.

This has led me to a path that I know I do not fit with most people.  You may view yourself as a selfish or scary creature, because of how you lash out or strike those who come too close.  I view myself as the meditating pariah, scary in his layers.  I speak harsh truths I see, because I see them.  People have trouble hiding around me.  Their armor and costumes of whatever they use to get through the day like a superego become useless.  My words make me into an enemy, especially when I am right, but in a different way when I am wrong. 

Sometimes I never really find out if I saw a person.  Many never say or just go.  Most I never even communicate what I think I saw.  In either all of the chatter, the stimuli, the spiritual and the social I purpose what I sense as the truth internally.  If I choose to speak to help, to share, to forge a connection, to play, to hurt, to live I let that truth rattling like a bird in a cage to fly out into the greater universe.  What happens next is more often painful than pleasurable.  No one wants to walk down with Hades.

I often default that the world would wish me to just go away, not speak, not do, and just depart.  I am a creature meant to roll the stone like Sisyphus or wander the seas like Odysseus.  I am the ancient tortoise that nature will not grant the reprieve of death.  I am Chiron, immortal but stabbed with poison feeling the burn and unable to escape.  I understand what it is like to have to obey one’s nature and what happens when you attempt to defy it.

I need somebody strong and fierce, labyrinthine, gray, wild and alive.  Alive like she saw the hell of plastic streets and the Golgotha of the Sam Walton cartel and would rather light herself on fire than pretend the emperor was not naked.  There is this game somewhere in Applebee’s and plugging into television, churning homework and stalemate genitalia held hostage by the malaise of paychecks and laundry.  I don’t want to play that game. 

My game is about thoughts, art; sure the mortgage/rent has to get paid, but there is this balance of what one actually does with one’s life.  Mine to a large degree is an internal battle with the universe as the self.  My writing is my vessel.  I want to find a balance in a manner of relationship of give and take which can work with that.  I have never found it.

I do not need to be solved.  I do not need another writer, but feeling heard, feeling seen, and being read in such away allows me to give myself permission to quit writing for a window.  It lets me put my sword down in this inner war.  It lets me not feel as compelled to go searching, because I feel like a part of what I am searching for out there in the universe has found me.  The purpose of that war is to uncover the elixir of the shared silence and the woven conversations in a tapestry that feels like a constellation where Andromeda has found Perseus. 

Her atomic gaze is respite.  I long to not be this man in this inner quest, knowing that is all he can be, but love, being witnessed in my beautiful ugliness is my timeless harbor.  Odysseus must keep sailing, but when they find port together he is with the Gods. 

Life is a rising tide and a vanishing shoreline.  Life requires participation for which I battle to muster the energy.  As an introvert, when I have meetings or events scheduled, I have to take alone time to charge up and recover.  I love and hate the barrooms, the street parades, and the doing-doing.  Participating in the internal I have myself and my phantom partner in writing, but when I say I want a life-partner that is what I mean, someone to share the internal and on occasion the external.  I want a dear friend who rides a curve of space-time for this version of now while it lasts.  That is being alive to me.

How many days I have remaining to say I experienced such living in that day, in whatever form it comes is a count I wish to raise as high as I can.  I know this thing, whatever it was we shared that is cultivating this letter and these thoughts came from days where I felt such a manner of living.  I felt alive and present in the universe.  I felt inspired and hunger for more of those days as I make new connections.

I felt like you have your own battle as the muse.  Part of each of us wants companionship but knows what we do, knows what we need, knows how impossible it feels to ever find someone who is capable of understanding us and navigating those waters. 

Maybe I do not and am not capable of understanding you or you me, but the depth of what this poet potentially saw and what I felt spiritually was present guiding me to see it, to have the words pop into my mind in the order they have, and act the way I did then and the way I am now calls to me to summon the bravery to face the possibility that maybe we were each capable of more than we allowed ourselves to believe.

I want a soul to run away with and be a demanding example that I am not allowed to give up.  That I am not meant to only sit outside the city gates, that someone hears me, wants to read my words and see me in full.  That someone can decipher my tongue.  That someone wants to risk feeling the occult of kindness and expectation that they are allowing themselves to need me as part of, but not to define their life.  That I am not meant to ride the rails like Woody Guthrie and sing hobo lullabies to sterile moonlight.  Punk rocker Sheena will find me.

I think of the shrapnel in my side.  I think of unwritten lines waiting to be shocked into being.  I think of the next novel in my head.  I think of what I might contribute to humanity.  I think of every word I ever wrote as this deceased carcass, done with and piled in a closet, useless to focus on because the only focus is the present and what one does with the time one has. 

Writers write because we have to, not because we want to; if we don’t, we know we’re already gone.  We’re done.  We’re nothing.

I am a dreamer and a pragmatist dueling.  I sing Thunder Road hoping for magic in the night knowing what is under the dirty hood.  I am no hero, no savior, just an open road.  Sometimes I am the driver; sometimes I need the passenger seat.  Sometimes my eyes get weary focusing on the mirage of asphalt.  When I am brave I believe in a promised land. 

I doubt.  I fear.  I know death can come so sudden; no promises are made beyond the moment.  I am a romantic; I am a lover; I am poet.  To try to fit in another type of skin is asphyxiation. 

I have this moment in my life and I do not want to pretend what I felt did not happen.  I do not want to pretend anything that I shared with you makes any sense as not what the root of me wanted to explore as serendipity dripped from tongues.  It’s over, but I did feel that way.

You hide yourself like a pent agave flower, blooming every fifteen years.  I felt your heart strings for this second.  I feel like you made the first exit of convenience.  The part of me that wants to devour and be enveloped by the rawness in the purity of what life really is feels like I saw you do it.  I feel cheated out of knowing that I am not a crazy pallbearer toting the body of some alternate path right in front of me and chucking the pathetic slob into a skid row incinerator. 

All I want is someone to spend time with on occasion, explore this amazing New Orleans and Earth and see each other fully as part of a greater universe.  I want a person to look forward to as part of my week.  I want a person to challenge me to my potential. 

I want her to acknowledge her own expectations to achieve with her life, exalt the ones she has brought to fruition and pursue the rest for herself, but be present to help her along the way.  I want to challenge her to depend on me.  I have always struggled with asking for help, trying to do everything on my own.

I will always be a vagabond soul; I want an anchor point in this world that will keep me from wilting and inspire me to test my limits.  I will dive into my monster and rage and call for the bigger and sometimes I am not easy to be around. 

I like to live and do my own thing.  I like to share conversations, travel, meals and some activities, but for the most part the most satisfying aspect of a relationship outside the bedroom is simply being in the same place knowing an intimacy without having to be preoccupied with being what the other needs.  The bedroom is becoming one fire engulfed, but in all each person is allowed to be who one is and having each person want exactly that.  Each person accepts the nature of the other as they are, not as whom they have been herded into a fenced area to be, but who they are even if the other was never aware of their presence on this Earth. 

To me that is a flavor of love I find most soothing.  To you I imagine it does not.  When you told me you could never be the woman that I need, I hear the muse fearing being controlled, eluding the idea of love as a snare, knowing she is built to inspire the realm, not merely one man.

I saw this fierceness in you to be only yourself, to eschew contact before submission.  That called to me as beautiful.  I wanted to get closer to that, but I feel like that made you feel trapped and you pushed me away.  I was not trying to trap you, but I cared and wanted to explore.  I understand you have to be you, but what of my feelings for you; what of your feelings for me; were these the chaff or the wheat?

I go back to the question I asked, do you love yourself?  Do you want love?  Do you feel you deserve to be loved?  I wanted to pursue a path, where maybe one day far in some distant land I might, you might speak such heretic words, probably not, but Blasphemy! Curses!  Light the building; start the arson!  Nothing but brave ninnies dare speak and sink into positions of love to risk destruction.  The Kraken of obligation could obliterate multiple worlds.  Spiraling in such ways makes a bird want to use her wings to escape the very maelstrom she inspired.

The undulation of the soft and hard versions of you felt like a rhythm I could groove.  The two chambers beating primed my engine.  The cuddle and the bite, both link to a scent of a vagabond soul resigned to viewing the world through a hardened lens.  Life refracts where you were the striking scorpion and I was the man offering his second hand after the first is bleeding venom.  I did so because I care what beats inside you more than the fist outside.  I did so because I saw the universe inside you and your reaction flowing. 

I am an easy going guy.  I get pushed; you pulled me in, pushed me away.  I am kind hearted I give chances I should not.  I am water like.  When the other moves I flow to make space.  I am not one to demand others to alter their behavior.  I am more one to be that which I seek like a reflecting surface.  If I do not wish to receive conditional, I offer unconditional.  If that is not reciprocated I process in my writing and move forward claiming the truth I felt and what I feel in the present.

I am dead inside if I do not write.  I walk like a damn zombie doing what makes sense to bide time, mulching hours, watching the grocery store aisles and punch clocks whip adults in a smutty horse track.  The boredom of the real world calls me to art and books to breathe.  I often need to go in alone to find that breath.  Being around you for a while was a bit like having a second reservoir of air.

I want to feel alive and be yanked apart at the seams by a woman who sees me.  I want a woman that knows she can be all the way in and I may push her away to find space.  Alone in the writing will always be my lover.  I need alone and a pen like a chain cougher lusts a cigarette. 

I have to bend this energy in me to run and be in that place others cannot follow.  I bring my thoughts of them in there to wander.  They can read from a distance, but they have to stay out while I am in the room while I am snorting the pieces of me I do not want to keep still because life will get too close. 

With you I thought I saw pieces of what I was made to function.  I thought maybe you needed something similar and could empathize like there were parts of this machine-world that choked you at times and you had to be a certain way to survive and be happy.  I felt like I could relate to that.  I was figuring things out.  I felt like some of the same things drove you nuts and maybe the same quiet things made you happy.

The house, the suburbia, what I look like from the outside: those are like heirloom coffin nails from my former lives all jumbled up into the lumbering Frankenstein mish mash that I am.  The furniture, the televisions, the priorities are baubles of who I never was, use to be, and it is all this busted crab shell strewn on the lawn.  The real me is the writer asking the world what the hell is this madness, keeping his day job like a raft.  I want a soul I can wrap up in and then ask to give me space, I need my aloneness right now and she understands.  I need a woman who also needs her own space. 

I need a woman who appreciates what I remember about her, because she knows she is important to me.  I need a woman who does not punish me for caring.  I need a woman who in her quiet soul wants me to know her, that appreciates me coming to find and get her. 

The labors to the lion, the hydra, the hind, the boar, the stables, the birds, the bull, the mares, the belt, the cattle, the apples, and the hound of hell were part of what was needed, what was done.  Athena said use the lion’s claws to pierce the impenetrable hide.  Athena gave Hercules the golden sword, but he decapitated the hydra.  Athena gave Hercules the rattle to flush the birds.  Athena helped Hercules traverse the underworld, but he walked the path.

This life I have lived and continue to live to be such a man bearing his chest and sword is appreciated because he will.  He will keep to the task and do what need be done.  That asceticism from mouthing lumber as a child calls him to be so disciplined.

I need a woman who is brave and vulnerable enough to tell me what she needs and wants and appreciates my presence like a rock.  I will give her my attention.  I will give her my foundation.  I will extol her beauty as poet, as beast, but it all begins in her vulnerability.  If she does not feel the latitude or freedom to be vulnerable her femininity is trampled.  Her soul gets closed.

The expectations of most people with the straight line, with the minivan, the Easter basket, and the on-the-regular routine it’s not me, because it has never felt right.  Generic platitudes and self-descriptions of the dating trough make me cringe at the fallow soil.  I say don’t waste my time with charades, be real, offer your piece, be a nudist.  No, the world is in hiding in uniforms criticizing each other for liking the same camouflage.  I am part of it. 

I try to explore, make acquaintances, get beyond the egg shells, but there is just so much noise.  It is so hard to know where to dig.  So many days I do not even want to try.  I just want to avoid the whole mess and be inside my head.

I do not approach people sometimes because I do not expect them to understand.  I am looking for a black swan.  I do initiate in pieces to get by because that is the only way anything ever happens.  Mainly I hang back wanting someone who could hear me and share her underbelly raw, but that has never happened. 

I want someone who accepts who they are good and bad, but knows growing never ceases, evolution is perpetual.  Yes biologically we may leave genes.  Elementally our bodies may decay and reemerge in the belly of stars, but spiritually we alter the path of countless progressions in time’s ballet in every moment the very concept of our choices cries to the purview of an audience.  Even in death we are not yet done. 

Luna in you I thought I saw a person who might be able to handle my Able and Cain, love and rage, balanced and aware of things other people just do not seem to see.  Maybe she could see them; maybe she wanted to look through my eyes and see the universe pulsing.  Maybe I am so lost I was grabbing at white feathers painted black from a busted pillow. 

I saw a woman with her own wilderness.  I saw a woman still, but brimming with aggression.  I saw focus and rules, control and perpetually burning the wax to keep her busy, like she was exhausted from the overloaded movement like an oasis did not apply to her life.

Luna, I felt like I might be a harbor for you, like I was an open port for you to sail in and commission supplies to refuel, sail the world and maybe return to me when desired.  I felt like the detail in which I saw you was real.  It was not conjecture but serendipitous meter.  I felt like the way I am built I might have been a cup for you, a potable water supply for this journey. 

It may just be desert sand; hill upon hill of nonsense yellow sand, a gritty nothing.  I don’t know.  Writing this feels like madness, but a harbor for your pirate ship is how you made me feel.  Maybe it was just hope, misplaced hope in a mirage with a mouthful of ancient pulverized seashells caking my tongue.

There is no pirate ship, no mermaids.  There is no neverland. There are no owls, scorpions, or sirens.  There are no turtles, wolves, or pariahs outside any gates.  There is only balderdash spewed from a man wrapping pebbles at a window of a house about to call the police. 

There is no magic.  There is no god.  There is coincidence and manufactured histrionics of prestidigitation.  This was all an illusion of a poet hoping, sitting down at a patio table across from a woman like these dead bodies in the bog were stepping stones for each of them.  This is all flotsam, just churning debris of strangers passing on opposite sides of interstate glancing in the rush, then vroom! 

The blur it makes drivers see what we want to see: seeds, life, tears in mascara of how many times, a fist pounding a mattress like a gavel for God to show face, want behind the spoken for the unspoken background to surface, the links of I am what I have to be and “for today I am a child, for today I am a boy, but one day I will grow up and be a beautiful woman.  Feel the power in me, this I am sure, I know whom is in me, feeling full and pure.”

A poet is built to see all at once.  Either you saw part of the same fated interplay and fear got the better of you, did and did not wish to partake, or I am a foolish dreamer drunk on poetry and wry hope drowning in the tsunami I foreshadowed. 

I do not know where life will lead.  I felt like I could be myself with you, but I feel like you did not want to let anyone into your sanctum.  I respect that, but it made growth impossible.  For us to have ever had a chance you would have had to want that chamber to at least gradually open.  I thought it was and was happy for it. 

If you want to live your days blocking men like me away, I can imagine where that comes from, but I am only guessing.  I was just trying to find my version of happy that included an elusive manner of companionship that I rarely feel is comprehensible to the party I am attempting to explain what I would like in my life.  You have rejected that.  I accept that.  This letter is to convey the depth of what I felt occurred, whether it is erroneous, specious, or haphazardly on point.

You displayed a deep intellect, penchant for listening, intrapersonal intelligence, range of personal experience and commensurate empathy to where I felt not only might you understand, but you might require something similar.  I am not sure in how many respects I was mistaken, but I do know enough for you to make the decision you chose.

I do know in you is a soul wanting to care about others.  I saw her spirit looking at the girl with the soccer ball holding her gift to you into the night.  I saw her speaking to another child playing hide and seek at the end beyond a levee.  I heard it in the way you spoke the words Aunt Panda.

I saw her petting alley cats.  I heard her asking on the phone after she did not contact me for a while before Namese when I would like to see her again clarifying with that is if I, do you still want to?  I saw her dryly drenched thinking of her dying friend.  I saw her sitting on a kitchen countertop after skipping her nap to stay up with me.  I saw her decompressing at the top of the stairs dispersing clay. 

I think I saw her on a silver chair of rules and give into the never, because never is firm.  Never does not hurt differently, never simply is.  Never is under control like a presence of a sky, of a parent, of love, of a God, of an always. 

Never is inflexible, reliable, and a future wrapped in glittering metallic ribbons of what love cannot be or go.  A life partner sounds too much like love one day and that could never be.  Never remains an illusionary building constructed in a future behind a timeline only graspable in the moment of our death.  We will not be here to touch it.  I know my never well.

You told me you are not as scared as I think you are.  You must not be.  I thought the first fifteen minute fear you talked about, the fear of monogamy I thought those came from a deep place.  I thought maybe there were stories or pieces of you that you felt if I knew I would not like you anymore or as much.  It is no use in me speculating, but I did in my head. 

I felt like maybe there was this line you were approaching contemplating divulging some of that history and rather than cross it, you ran.  Maybe you picked hurt him before he hurts me.  I just wanted you to talk to me if that was the case.  I wanted you to have that leap of faith in yourself and me.

I tried to describe the road I have been on.  I put my neck on that railroad tie.  I gave you everything I had to give in those days, letters, and these words to help you open.  I wanted to see you smile at me and fall.  Fall away from wherever that place is that says this is what never can be or this is what has to be. 

That woman smiling at me in my bed waking up on that Saturday morning was happy.  That was not fake.  That, “I’m going to be vulnerable now” was not fake.  How many moments in your life have you had like that?  I conclude enough to throw what this might have become away.  I know I am not crazy.  Maybe that was as real as it seemed and the truth is just a plain picture I am to accept. 

I felt heard for the first time in a long time.  Most women give me deer in the headlights when I go deep.  You did not; I felt like you listened and wore that empathy from a commensurate cavern and vagabond path. 

Bodies age, barely walk.  It is only the guts that matter, the soul, the passion, and the lines we will and will not cross to be dancing stardust.  It is the grit in the voice that knows the peccadillos and the wonder of our ulterior talents.  I saw potential in such a foundational confluence.  I do not know if there was a line of what you were too afraid to share with me, but I do know ultimately you departed.

My first novel is called Parallel Paths.  Luna, the links of your life you flashed are the closest I have ever come to feeling like some of the obstacles and interludes of my past were sparking to relate to someone else’s in what you hinted you have experienced.  There is the plug-in commercial fall-in-line path of this world.  Then there is another I think we both probably find native.

As I conclude this letter, I reflect on how and why I have attempted to give you such a panoramic window into my path.  I feel like a two-thousand year old vampire offering a slit vein in his breast for you to drink.  I realize I would not be writing as I have if I was not so crestfallen yearning for you to imbibe.  I wanted you to enter my world and share yours.

I know the length and content of my letters may come across as a bulldog’s tenacity to cling to a bone as if I cannot get over you or of a machine stuck in the mud somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.  It’s not that.  I do not work like that. 

I see that spiritual, emotional, physical, and mental experience I went through with you and the questions I posed, the comments I made; those come from a man invested in getting every god damn moment out of his life.  Pride is insecurity to me.  Pride is one in fear of appearing vulnerable who presents a visage of strength at the detriment of risking the wagers of faith.

I am willing to say all of this because it may be six months, it may be years, but at some point this connection and these words will affect at least one of our paths on how we perceive what we will come across later.  There is a weird world within you which I am ignorant.  Maybe my faith to describe what I felt, what I saw, will lead to growth somewhere.  Maybe it will be in what you take forward to another and never talk to me again.  Maybe the act of writing it will in part do that for me. 

I may never know the butterfly’s effects, but I feel like you have this urge to prove to others that you will never be trapped.  I also feel like you are chasing a ghost.  I see a blend of sadness in both of those ideas, but it is your life.  I do not want to date someone with a closed heart.  I am glad you ended this when you did because mine was only getting more open.

If you change your mind and want to begin to open up and share your inner self in the future, maybe we could date again and see where it goes.  Maybe we will never be in that synchronicity.  In either case what I saw of you was significant enough to me for me to choose to summon the level of detail, energy, and focus required to express these sentiments.  I appreciate you taking the time to read them.

Best wishes, I wish you peace and love in your life.


Severus

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