One rarely is aware of the end. Some words were never spoken, some letters weren’t sent, some calls left unanswered, and some breeze left unnoticed.
The beginning of another journey without the old world, habits, sans impressions — A clean slate, is best left unwritten. Love can always veil it with blushes, spirit, joy. The past is already part of that play, act one scene two thousand O nirvana, hasn’t that already ended — The cénotaphes of the past are good pedestals for young stories, questions, revered monuments.
No darlings, if you’ve ever creatively edited, you would leave the past somewhere in the future, perhaps a tad, it would make for good flow, at least for the mind. Sometimes a brush of his hands, or a kiss on the cheek can bring back a thousand unconsumed memories waiting to be luminously torn apart like a big-bang
This whole is but a smile, darlings
Love too, sometimes need tombstones. Eyes rarely appreciate her. Civilised nations take for granted that presence, and one cataclysmal day, we realise everything has changed.
We oftentimes try to justify our good-temperedness, we always try to show our good sides, always seem to never learn why she left because we’re too busy at protecting our hearts, our minds, our chequebooks, our egos; our time, our private lives, our dreams.
We forget that Love creates indication to those … moments, those dreams. We forget the bonfire within, the stories of our roots in the lava rivers gushing through ravaged by uncontrollable thirstiness … we often think when we love, we can last for as long as perhaps in the contemporary world, a golden anniversary — comme il faut, decorus! Five years along a courtship, the fire sizzles, and another dance is consumed. Those are mere ideas of love.
Love Truth, even when separated over a thousand years returns to reclaim the whiteness of the Moon, and the gold of the Sun.
Love, is the very breath, the one heartbeat, one soul between two bodies at its lowest rung. Spiritual. When one is ailed, the other is restless. Between, only death them does part. And death is a mere veil. Sleep. This is the salvation for such noble souls. In love, they are raised. In spirit they are one and the same.
Love, is the Ascension. Always. The Eternal.
There’s no infidelity on either part. For in rare cases, when a bond, a separation is stirred … which is often labeled in the mundane as a fall from Grace is nothing more in the realms of the Divine, a Returning. No masquerade, no doubts.
In the veiled worlds, it is but an impression of histories. Yours’, his’, hers’, theirs’ … everybody seem to want to catch this glimpse of the spark.
One dot. One Spark. Not even the Sun, nor the stars nor the Moon and we pen poems, compose music to give what, feelings, for a triple platinum business affair. Love has become a business, a trade, between paper gods, and faux temples. Words. Breath. Heart. Beauty. Power no longer are in tandem — these days, so called modern contemporary living is pure emptiness, weightless, impuissant!
Its merely hit and run. Instant. Gone.
Love, is uninterruptible … It never says goodbyes. Lovers intoxicate their continuance from whichever lifetime they wish to return throughout centuries like Leyla and Majnun; Romeo and Juliet, or Napoleon and Josephine. These days we say words that mean nothing, words unconscious to weight endearing emotions.
Veritable Love is never a fantasy, and unlike Life she is traceable only once in a lifetime, in a thousand if not ten. Love is designed for the nobles, for the elite of the awakened souls. An emotion, an impression rarely lived by ordinary souls. Love doesn’t nestle itself in commonness. It is too precious, too noble. However lust, is something else — often mistaken for such sublimity, it is confined within the perimeters of senses. It doesn’t travel beyond dimensions, beyond minds.
To attain to that state … is reachable and I’d be fibbing if I said it was ever possible for the uncouth — How long can you endure the burning, how far can you live through such intensity? A second? A millennium?