from Letters to Love
So many thoughts run through my head. So much wondering where we went wrong, and how….. how on earth we could not manage to put it back together again. The only thing I ever truly wanted, with all my heart, my most precious ideal… just lays there broken and I cannot fix it. Helpless. I cannot love enough, it seems… or, perhaps, in this case, I loved so much it was no longer believable.
The tragedy for me, I know, is much greater, for she has forgotten much. Forgotten most everything. I don’t blame her for that. I just remember things better, or I cared more, or… something. I do not know. What I do know, though… is that I’ll never be happier than that. That’s what scares me so…. knowing that the pinnacle of my life was spent in the arms of a woman who, eventually, might well forget me altogether.
I know it wasn’t the same for her. Her heart, it appears, was with him, even when she was with me, although she insists it isn’t true. I wonder sometimes how my life would have been different had I never rushed down those stairs to chase that beautiful stranger. I’m still not sure why I did it at all, for I never had before and I have not since. I do realize that in the end I had no choice. It was meant to happen. Still, I wonder how different it all would be now; what color the sky would hold if my heart were here inside me, instead of tucked away in her nightstand drawer.
Time heals all wound, they say… but not this. True love is a terminal illness. My destiny, perhaps, to mourn it forever. Life without pain is no life at all. Only in death comes bliss. I will move on, per her wish, and undoubtedly be successful. That, of course, is the easy part. The hard part is the love and at that, this time, somehow, I am defeated.
Now, then, this crossroads, with no directions, no signs, no indication of where to turn. Willing hearts lie down each path, beautiful, gentle hearts and yet… my only desire is to turn back to her again, that beautiful girl… the one place I called home. I know now that no words will ever convince her. No act will ever prove to her what I hold for her inside… what incredible things are possible. Looking back, it seems, I did too much. Tragic irony, that. Still, I wonder if there would be any limit to the lengths I would go. I doubt it, for to do anything less than all can would be something less than genuine.
Love… true love, must be made, I believe. Created daily in thought, word and deed. The physical act is simply that… acting out what we feel, then enjoying what we have built. All my life I’ve known this; strived to demonstrate it to others. Love must be made or it will die. This lesson falls so often on deaf ears.
Perhaps I expect too much?
Epictetus wrote… “If you wish to make progress within yourself, you must be prepared to seem a fool by others.” Perhaps that’s all I’ve ever been: a fool for love. Damn this romantic heart. A thousand times I’ve wished to be stupid. Shallow. Callous. Hard. Aiming for nothing but money and power. Fame, perhaps, as well. Ambitious only in this present life, thinking nothing of the next.
What if, every goddamn day, you woke up and found your heart was broken all over again? What if, for a fleeting moment, between sleep and awake, right on the cusp between the dreams and the thinking, there was nothing…. blissful nothing and it felt as if your heart was finally at peace? What if all day long you couldn’t wait to fall asleep again, just to have that one moment’s relief? What if the days and months ticked off like they were nothing and you lived, truly lived… for only a few seconds each day?
What if people asked why you don’t do this and you don’t do that and you have so much going for you and why do you throw it all away and quite honestly, none of it means a damn thing to you because you only truly care about that one shining moment, those beautiful few seconds that you allow yourself to indulge in before you roll over to once again discover that no one is there after all? What if you spent your days and nights wondering if you truly were alone in all of this all along?
It’s a cold, cold world for dreamers and lovers. People like us, well, we end up stashed neatly in keepsake boxes, on shelves, in basements, lost among distant memories.
Copyright© 2004, Christian Fauchald