A Journal of Sorts
"it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" ~ William Shakespeare ~ (but is it?) every day I come to this place (well, almost every day... it seems like every day, after all)... I write myself for all to see, exposing every part of me (well almost every part, there are some weird decency laws and I don't think I'd be happy in jail, especially if internet access is not permitted and I'd go mad without writing and my hands prefer keyboards t paper and pen now, after years of acclimation... but where were we?)... this place... every day I come to this place (relative time, relative place)... I write with the hope that someone will find me... find me and want to know me... know me and want to love me... love me true forever and ever... it's just a dream that keeps me alive... and coming here keeps me hoping it will come true one day... more exposure, perhaps?... someone other than me who cares... there is so much more to me and my dreams (as a look around this place, beyond these journal pages, will tell you) than the perfect everlasting romantic fantasy... even in this current web world, large parts of me and my dreams are not exposed... not enough time, not enough space, not enough memory or speed in the equipment... so I focus on the words since writing is the core sanctuary (within the music sancturary, though the music is threaded through the writing and forms a deeper core that words can not touch)... when I take a look around at what is not seen here, I realize that this web world reflects more of me than the supposed real world does... in the physical reality, appearances are very deceiving and I seem to be out to prove this... I'm not very well kept these days... mourning does that... if I never fell in love, if I never felt the longing for romance, I might not be the same person I am... but I would still be the happy child living in the moment freely sharing as harmlessly as possible... I remember brief moments of such ignorance of romance way back... first memories... diapered... but among those first memories, a child of three or four reaches out for romantic love... we can only attribute it to instinct, I suppose, as the stimuli of my first few years was barren of romance or sensitivity or security or awareness... there was neglect and apathy and abuse and severe neediness, but also, in the distance, someone who was unconditionally securely there for me when she was around... grandma... alas, she wasn't around enough... but given time to myself as a 12 hour nursery school child before I was three, given that time to be explore on my own (escaping from supervision was my major), I found out who I was/am... and then, amidst the play, I found sharing closeness was as much fun as solitary play... nap time became cuddle time and free time became time for exploring intimacy... strange as it may seem to most people (I see the looks), I still feel in love with that first partner... moving away at six was the first profound loss I experienced in conscious memory in this life and I still mourn that one too... still... life is more than mourning... and more than playing solitary games... so here I am wondering if anybody can understand me... if anybody can step away from the stereotypes and forced paths of their youth to realize something is very wrong with our society... so much violence, apparently enjoyed by so many... and suicide is socially acceptable, especially in small doses... perhaps that is their way of mourning... perhaps we are not so different after all... I just don't believe in or enjoy violence meant to harm and I prefer to be conscious when paying my respects to my losses... and especially conscious when meeting a new partner who might rise above the games and trials and struggles and losses to rediscover belief in love and start all over again... so I come to this place every day... and here I am... |
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