Thursday, December 15, 2016

"The blackbird whistling"

I was happier when I was heartbroken, I think. Now, I am just bored. There are three recurring seasons of life: love, loss, ennui. None able to resolve the last, each returning by unseen timepiece, ticking off seconds days months from some calendar kept elsewhere. 

This is the third post that I have written this morning. There was one that was quite funny, though it was also vulgar and playfully sexist, a thing that we are told can not exist. I wrote frantically for about an hour before some other part of me stomped on it with editorial authority. Oh, the beauty of inflections or the beauty of innuendoes. I entertain myself with crudities because I am lonely and hostile to love. I feel as if love has picked a gripe with me and I have lost the capacity for magnanimity. I lack the refinement of feeling that affection can produce. I have so very little left to be careful with. 

I miss the craziness of love, the unexpected predicaments that accompany shared and private affections. 

Have you ever watched people that are falling in love? It's a silly creature with extra legs. Each duo teaching one another to dance using the signed language that they have only just invented. It is so sweet and wonderful and genuine, worth sometimes enduring all that follows. 

Loss is so easy, anybody can do it. All that is required is first being inauthentic to yourself. 

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; If you can bounce high, bounce for her too, till she cry Lover!, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you! 
- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers