In Freedom and Love
I have been on a projectile path this past month. As the tale as old as time wisdom goes, "time heals everything." And sometimes it is because we cover up the negative with the positive, so much so that all we see in a 180 panorama is the future's wide and open arms embracing our every foot step.
But then you trip, look to the ground, find something from long ago you must have dropped along the way. You pick it up, turn it introspectively, disarming its details, reacquainting yourself with its form and memory. Then the error--you look back. Your eyes lock. Your heart switches from Autopilot Drive to a slow Reverse. You see the trail of the things you have left behind, like bread crumbs that used to line your heavy pockets. Connecting the dots, remembering.
God, Remembering--It is a curse and a blessing. But it still amazes me how easy it is to forget with enough time put in between our consciousness and our pain. It's the buffer, the cushion. But some things don't heal, they're just forgotten. And when you revisit it, there's nothing that will change the incident. Nothing to change all the emotions that were felt at that time and place with that someone.
I am in a period of my life where my heart is not engorged, enamored, drunk, imbued, perfumed, and entranced with love. That real love that colored my world, rang in my ears, spun the fabric of my personality with another's, and was the definition of my happiness. Now, Happiness is in my hands, in my will, in my power, in my control. And it's such a different way of being.
I am reminded of comprehending my existence as I did when I was a child standing at the edge of an open, empty field at dusk in the summer. The school yard was empty, but I did not feel alone. I felt full, enabled, peaceful, and most of all, elated that I was in that place at that time. My limbs radiated with the anticipation and excitement brewing in my chest, at the seconds before launching into flight. My existence was between my spirit's hunger to fly and the world as my endless sky to discover. I ran for my life. Not because anything was pursuing me, not because I had to. I was celebrating, because I was enthralled by true freedom.
And now I realize that all I want is to reach the ultimate existence of meeting that free spirit with true love. How people define the paths that will get them to their definitions of freedom all varies. And the more I think about it, the more I am negotiable with my terms of death. If I could have a solid few years where these two forces of happiness in my life combine, then the apex of experiencing life as I would prefer to experience it would be fulfilled. I know it might sound twisted, but maybe a lifetime till 90 is not in the book for me. It's all in the quality, and if I could attain that quality, that perfection in my eyes, then I could die a fully-lived being.
There used to be a time in my life where I wrote love letters almost every day. It flowed back and forth in a reciprocal slow dance from one love to the other, cherishing and adoring. I almost forgot how it feels like to tap into those sentiments, that sprout the words, that bloom in the letters sealed with a kiss and a piece of the heart sent away each time. I forgot how sickly wonderful and splendid that experience was. To be completely taken under Love's embrace.
I've felt the double-edged sword of Love many a time already, and it's true what they say--"better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." Through the agony and the ecstasy, it's that warm, golden light that will always draw you back to the happiest times in your life when you fell into another completely--completely vulnerable, disarmed, bare. Because just like standing at the precipice of that open field, your heart beating faster at the taste of freedom blowing in your hair, you remember what it was like to surrender yourself to a force greater than yourself that swept you into a beautiful universe only existent when love-to-love's eyes connected.
But then you trip, look to the ground, find something from long ago you must have dropped along the way. You pick it up, turn it introspectively, disarming its details, reacquainting yourself with its form and memory. Then the error--you look back. Your eyes lock. Your heart switches from Autopilot Drive to a slow Reverse. You see the trail of the things you have left behind, like bread crumbs that used to line your heavy pockets. Connecting the dots, remembering.
God, Remembering--It is a curse and a blessing. But it still amazes me how easy it is to forget with enough time put in between our consciousness and our pain. It's the buffer, the cushion. But some things don't heal, they're just forgotten. And when you revisit it, there's nothing that will change the incident. Nothing to change all the emotions that were felt at that time and place with that someone.
I am in a period of my life where my heart is not engorged, enamored, drunk, imbued, perfumed, and entranced with love. That real love that colored my world, rang in my ears, spun the fabric of my personality with another's, and was the definition of my happiness. Now, Happiness is in my hands, in my will, in my power, in my control. And it's such a different way of being.
I am reminded of comprehending my existence as I did when I was a child standing at the edge of an open, empty field at dusk in the summer. The school yard was empty, but I did not feel alone. I felt full, enabled, peaceful, and most of all, elated that I was in that place at that time. My limbs radiated with the anticipation and excitement brewing in my chest, at the seconds before launching into flight. My existence was between my spirit's hunger to fly and the world as my endless sky to discover. I ran for my life. Not because anything was pursuing me, not because I had to. I was celebrating, because I was enthralled by true freedom.
And now I realize that all I want is to reach the ultimate existence of meeting that free spirit with true love. How people define the paths that will get them to their definitions of freedom all varies. And the more I think about it, the more I am negotiable with my terms of death. If I could have a solid few years where these two forces of happiness in my life combine, then the apex of experiencing life as I would prefer to experience it would be fulfilled. I know it might sound twisted, but maybe a lifetime till 90 is not in the book for me. It's all in the quality, and if I could attain that quality, that perfection in my eyes, then I could die a fully-lived being.
There used to be a time in my life where I wrote love letters almost every day. It flowed back and forth in a reciprocal slow dance from one love to the other, cherishing and adoring. I almost forgot how it feels like to tap into those sentiments, that sprout the words, that bloom in the letters sealed with a kiss and a piece of the heart sent away each time. I forgot how sickly wonderful and splendid that experience was. To be completely taken under Love's embrace.
I've felt the double-edged sword of Love many a time already, and it's true what they say--"better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." Through the agony and the ecstasy, it's that warm, golden light that will always draw you back to the happiest times in your life when you fell into another completely--completely vulnerable, disarmed, bare. Because just like standing at the precipice of that open field, your heart beating faster at the taste of freedom blowing in your hair, you remember what it was like to surrender yourself to a force greater than yourself that swept you into a beautiful universe only existent when love-to-love's eyes connected.