Devastatingly beautiful are the human body, the human mind. Somehow we forget that, don't we? We become absorbed in the microcosm of daily tediums, forsaking that which propelled us on that journey in the first place. We must connect. We must stretch ourselves beyond that which is tangible and immerse ourselves in Magic. This, to me, is just that. A call to shed the cloak of my Not Self and embrace the Thaumaturge. Wherever we are on the wheel, there must be beauty.
I've been a real jerk these last few posts, whinging and complaining about whatever grievance is foremost. Really sorry interwebs, here's a song to make up for it.
Gone are the hopes of childhood. There is no hope anymore, it is just this that keeps us alive. It's something else that keeps us warm... Is it a trickle? A delicious bouncing percussion that reminds me that music holds all? Humor...the absurdity of it all.
Tonight I attempted to open a bottle of wine, quietly away from my ex-lover who sleeps so fitfully in the next room. The lover who told me less than a week ago that he's in love with another woman. He tells me tonight that he needs to travel to a beautiful island to grieve. For us? I'm so hopeful. NO. He needs to go because the woman he is in love with has rejected him and now he (quote) has no one (end quote). He can't be here and needs someone to look after his other love, a furry feline by the name of Karma.
Go away, you wretched person; you blind imbecile. My fingers ache to rend unholy acts upon your body.. unspeakable actions; you impossible foul fossil.
YOU ARE THE MOST INCREDIBLY BLIND, SELFISHLY CONNIVING, MANIPULATING, MISOGYNISTIC, NARCISSISTIC, SOCIOPATHIC FUCKING WANKER ASSHOLE.
Later this evening, the eruption of emotions found itself quietly but effervescently in the opening of an innocuous wine bottle. No wine bottle opener meets a tomato knife. The stuff of comic legend ha-ha-ha. Reality: the contents of my wine bottle splashed
everywhere. The mirror, the sink, the soap dispenser, the essential
oils, the jewelry dish, the wall, the toothpaste holder, the grout
between the bottle of shaving gel I bought he never uses and the bottles of essential oils I always swore I would. I
cleaned it all. Giggling quietly; knowing full well, that even if I
clean the wine off everything, there will still be pieces of myself left behind when I leave.
I'm laying down, eating snow My fur is hot, my tongue is cold On a bed of spider webs I think of how to change myself
In all my years on this planet, in this incarnation, I've never experienced shame about passion. Vulnerability, certainly. Weird whinging feelings fleeing wildly everywhere causing shameovers galore. We all are taught, bashed over the head even, that passion is paramount. It's the apex that we all are encouraged to embrace. Is it a sin to yearn and ache for consensual copulation; to grow sore and achy after a night of love-making? How can you violate someone that you yearn for, begging with need, for that powerful release? I'm lost. Truly lost. Uncomprehending and angry. He loves another and calls me a family member.
Karma, some say, is a bitch. The vehicle through which we deserve what we've perpetrated unto others, doubled back onto us. I prefer to see it as a lesson to be learned. Fucking people over, being fucked over... I've left behind the just getting fucked. Love, for me, must be an algorithm I can't seem to unravel. The future is a blind, nebulous place; one rich in Nothing. It's a new situation, opening oneself and bending all your rules just to be dumped for being too passionate. A coworker told me tonight that because of my love of Bjork, I should just get a cat and get it over with. The getting over with becoming that crazy lady who loves cats and listens to music. Um... done and done.
If there are any of my ex-lovers out there, feel free to gloat. I feel it in all my bones, the loss of loving someone who doesn't love you in return. Humbled and bruised, I'm sorry, it's nothing glamorous. But, it's real. This is the song I've craved multiple times a day for the last three days, on repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Like medicine for the mind, the heart... the kind that does nothing but remind you of what you've lost.
Wait a minute baby Stay with me awhile Said you'd give me light But you never told me about the fire
Drowning in the sea of love Where everyone would love to drown But now it's gone It doesn't matter what for When you build your house Then call me home
And he was just like a great dark wing Within the wings of a storm I think I had met my match, he was singing And undoing, and undoing the laces Undoing the laces
Said Sara, you're the poet in my heart Never change, never stop But now it's gone It doesn't matter what for But when you build your house Then call me home
