Enough of love. Cut the flow. How about talking about the realization of love. I have come to understand that we talk about love in order to try to better understand our internal feelings. We love this, we love that, we attribute a sense of attachment and compassion towards it. Is it any way to live your life? To feel the heart pulsate and attract itself to a feeling of unity towards an object or a person? Well, I love love. I love it so much. Interesting on how I defined it as a methodical and boring theory. As an end to a miscommunication between brain and heart. That’s what love is. A clear distortion. An unresponsive mind that doesn’t seem to understand why this human being, which has been programmed to eat, sleep, reproduce, has an attachment. Attachment, it sounds so simple. Try the sacrifice of self-preservation. Above all us, we thrive in environments in order to survive. However, true love, real love is the unconditional support of a partner, or object. Some people love objects, but let’s not talk about that. Sure, I defined love. People will tell you in order to fully understand it, you must feel it. You would think it was enough knowing that your brain was shutting down, now it’s a physical impact. The body reacting to the mind’s numbness. All this explanation seems logical, but what if there’s more. What if those moments of impact, evolve. What if love, turns into something greater. It becomes obsession, people’s greatest fears. The result could be disastrous. It could also evolve, into the far extreme of laziness. Love can turn into comfort. It can turn into a monotone reason for people. A safety net. However, when the scale tips, when there is an epiphany. I think there’s another level, only so few can attain. Forget the traditional definition, forgo any preconceived notions. Forget the very word love. I have found it. The same impact of first love. The sweetest nectar. Everyone cherishes the first bite. The consistent flow of love is found in this new word I try to pinpoint. Maybe even create. To recap in a scientifically manner, this new feeling I have discovered has the same attributes of seeing for the first time, of watching for the first time. When one has entered this state, they shape shift constantly. In constant movement, on one’s toes consistently. This new attachment is freedom. It is not constrained by a definition. The very word itself does not even deserve to point towards it. Free love? Freedom? I’ll tell you what it feels like. A sunset coupled with a sunrise. The moments before the rays break or fade. It is wanting to living life to the point of tears. Crying because you are so happy, crying because you are so miserable. But also moving, forwards, backwards, it doesn’t matter. Love like life, is movement. And you know what’s the great thing? Unlike traditional love, that peaks at some point or falls, or even rises all the time. It does not stay stable. It rushes, it crashes, and it seeps slowly. Take a while, try to understand. Because with freedom, your brain is working, and your heart is soaring. It therefore seems easier to understand. In the end, the evolution of a new form of love – one that we are not fully capable to comprehend – boils down to the idea that: we share it with another free being. It is the natural communication that helps it reach a place where very few have ventured.
He held the leather bound book. The sun glistened off the front, detailing its worn cover. He hated this book. It had served him well. Detailing all of his adventures. It would kill him to lose it. It would destroy and tear his soul apart if one day it fell into the wrong hands. The hands of a lover, the hands of an enemy or even worse, and his own soul mended hands. A tear escaped from his eyes. It rolled right down on the front title. “My Adventure.” That’s what he called his life, his work, his designs. His adventures, his escape from reality, his afternoon in a world where nothing mattered but his own personal creations. He flipped the book open, the edge of the pages were yellow from the coffee that was spilled on them. He used and abused this book. He couldn’t take it anymore. This tool was old. It was worn out. It held his soul. He bent forwards, smelling the old pigments of paper. It felt eerily real. The words, how they were written, how the pen dug deeper into the paper by the weight of the word. He slid his hand on the opposite side of the book. He took a deep breath and pulled, gripping as hard as he could. He went on a rampage, his breath quickened, he only saw darkness, while pages were being torn. All that was left was the title, “My Adventure”. He cried.
The room was dark and warm. The sheets fluttered from the constant torrent of wind coming from the ventilator. His eyes were dry while her’s were shut, drifting in her dreams. A slight discomfort from the bed’s robustness sent him turning to his side. His back was faced to hers. He wouldn’t let the loss of her sight sink him into a lonely night. He positioned his foot next to hers. Her physical presence helped his dreams go by faster. A blanket of warmth filled his lungs, the night was just starting, yet he was all ready dreaming. Another bout against comfort, he turned around and faced her. She was smiling in her sleep. Her stomach rising with every delicate breath she inhaled. He wanted to join the parade of tenderness.. He wanted to be a part of her sleep, the systematic operations that the human body took in order to fall asleep. He wanted to be there when her brain went numb, when her heart slowed down. He wanted to share the sleep she fell into. He titled his head on her heart, his ear positioned directly on it. The room grew larger – the thunderous beat of her heart filled his ear. It felt as if the room was echoing it. During the gradual saunter of her passionate heart, that was on a stroll through his mind, he could sense that his was following suit. His heart was matching hers, they were on a stroll together, holding hands. His ear was echoing two beats intertwined. He smiled and fell right asleep.
Forget the tropical fruits.
Dismiss the warm climate and even the white sands.
Your skin burns not from the sun, but from her presence.
Hand in hand is where paradise is.
Told thousands of years ago, the banishment of the duo.
Paradise is her. It is in her, it is lived with her.
Four steps must be taken in order to feel the sand burn at your feet.
Four hands diving into the water in order to submerge into another world.
Four ears needed to hear the rhythm.
Four is her lucky number and it is the key in order to enter Ecstasy.
She loves crying, I love watching her.
I love crying, she likes to make me.
Release the tension of your emotions
For they spark when amassing
We travel to feel warmth soak our cheeks
Rapture, pleasure and mesmerizing love.
Tears are the natural solution of signs of happiness
Water the source of life, but also emotions
We fill our emotions, our conscious with bliss, with passion, tears are not signs of sadness
It is our soul cleansing, making room for more life, for more passion.
Silly me for supposing I can be happy
Terribly hard and confusing to understand such a concept
You’re telling me, I can comfortably let go of the rope?
That nothing will happen to me if I just feel that light headed?
One single slip and I am in bliss?
Doesn’t make sense, it really doesn’t.
Must be a trick, it has to be
Nothing is free… Especially happiness, you have to be on guard the whole time
Hell, I learned that in elementary school, the television even casts away such bold statements
Want to be happy? Wear some padding, protection, get ready for the drop so that it doesn’t rip your insides.
But wait… Take one second and understand that maybe, just maybe, that’s the whole point.
A bird is happier because it feels the wind on it’s beak, a horse pulls forwards stronger when not troubled.
You’re supposed to go rollerblading without knee pads.
It’s the anticipation of the drop that drives us.
We’re happy because we haven’t fell yet, we all deserve this loose nirvana.
Just switch the weight around, pedal faster or slower, just make sure of one thing
Remember the peak of the mountain.
Consideration is a gift, in which she only holds
Nobody really knows, but underneath it all that there is this heart all alone
Her eyes ablaze, she awakens the yearning to appreciate her identity
My mind is never at ease, for her parade of tenderness and show of friendly gestures
Weaken the very fiber of my knees, hard to get up from such a blow, the scent from her perfume fills my body as a comforter.
There’s this world of affection she’s never seen, that offers something she can hold.
The boundaries must be ripped apart, the thick sheet of fear torn to pieces
An ardent breeze will pass through, and will open her eyes to the forbidden fruit
It won’t be long, until she’s exposed, once a diamond in the rough
She now shines with the primordial envy of so many
The ebb and flow of her present crashes upon my heart, consuming it in despair
All at once, she overwhelmed me; I basked in the glory of her touch. It wandered away just like the fresh blooms of summer. Now the frost invades, freezing my love in place, until the next harvest.
So many flaws in your construction
A momentary lapse of reason
Yet you are part of me
How do I part from you
Take my sight
My breath and it’s automation
I might forget to read
The reason is much stronger
A slight pace, repetition is your strength
Absorb from around me, yet you indulge me
Push and pull
Input and output
You are your very own enemy
It creates and distorts reality
It creates transitions
It revolves around itself.
Manipulate and be manipulated
Promise me that you won’t remind me
Live in my own world yet connect to what is around me
Captivate your own self
Explicit yet inconspicious
It’s real when you feel it
When your in it
Continuity is your strenght
For it takes madness to realize this
Belief comes from continuity
You are a bomber
You are an enemy of repitition.
Is it possible, that my soul expects the inevitable disappointment of life? Living so fully, extending my arms to any bits of information that may enrich me has ended up decaying the space between my ribs. I question the very existence of my being, dive head first into the abyss of understanding, when do I not have time to experience? The bitter resentment and cadence of life has swung into full motion. My hair has not even turned grey and I look into the past. I understand that decisions must be made, I understand that the present matters, but I feel like I keep on hitting rewind on that favorite record. I keep on forgetting to tie my shoe laces. I know where the loop ends. I’m sure I know where love comes from. Love is not Hollywood. I managed to overcome stereotypes and fallacies every day, a great boyish smirk follows. But what now, after all is said and done, that I’ve found my Mecca, my Wall. The moments leading up to the self-discovery of my path, does it not make me shed a tear? I know full well that the logical path that previous elders have talked about is upon me. But, I am an elder, yet my hair is black. I can jump, I’m not in a wheel chair. Why was I cursed by being literate? Why did you make me love life so much that I have to live the rest in a circuit? Instill ignorance into me, it’s not too late. Tell me the speech that every man has to hear. Make sure that women don’t hear it. Abstraction doesn’t exist. It’s all in front of us, live with the beast. The beast machine we call our minds. I can’t recall what made me think this but thus far, I agree with myself. I have learned to love myself and others, why won’t my bones rot all ready? Make me live up until that fleeting moment, when the sun barely broke through the purple waters. When that wind froze my neck up on that mountain I conquered. Keep me in a different type of machine, where I can smile and glorify other creations that have nothing to do with me.
Wait. she said.
He stopped. The weight of her words anchoring him in place.
Promise me. she added.
His breath was cut off. His heart sunk into his stomach. His soul was ruptured, it pained his whole body.
I can’t. he said.
She fell to her knees, tears pouring down her face. History was repeating itself. Adam and Eve’s expulsion from paradise. Cleopatra’s and Anthony’s love. Even Paris and Helen suffered such pains and grief.
Love cannot live without a host. It must be nurtured, it must receive attention. You can’t leave me. she gasped through her tears.
He strapped on his sword. He holstered his gun. He grabbed his suitcase.
She smiled. She bid him farewell, he was never the same.
The experience is much more interesting with music.
Add a little rain 🙂 http://www.rainymood.com/