Honesty…Silence

I said, I love you…He said, Nothing.

It were if there were just one of each word and the one who used it, used it up.

In the history of language the first obscenity was silence. And it is in that silence I grieve, that his heart could so easily forget…his spirit betray. I miss the Honesty…

Honesty is soft…a smooth fluidity, comforting and drenched with substance.

Once, we drifted through life side by side with complete acceptance of each other. We spoke with passion of music, of art. It was lovely then, this…connection. Once we pretended shyness; now we've grown truly shy, dropping our heads so the eyes cannot be seen. Where did it end? There is no telling.

Honesty is a billowing cloak…translucent white, yet quick to become opaque.

I remember dressing as if for a great engagement…choosing those shoes, this scarf or a tie. Like Cinderella, I reckoned my dreams would materialize; however, I forgot to cast behind my only begotten shoe. And now, when I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness, I sit down and I go through my trouble…when I see the world and do not see my soul…he who has a chestnut shade in his hair.

Honesty is a treasured possession…a flawless mirror in which to admire a flawless reflection.

Several mornings he slept in my bed like a visitation, the gentleness in him like lilies opening in the dawn mist. What I knew in the morning I still believed at nightfall. Like being there in that springtime rain on the other side of the world while love was fading out of him, the stars burning so extravagantly that night that anyone could tell you it would never last.

Honesty has a secret…few know that Honesty likes to contradict and confuse.

I've worn masks a thousand times…I've pretended and it hurt. Having him to take off my mask, to reveal the truth out of me, that gave me happiness. When sadness struck against me, I struggled harder and harder to bring happiness back.

Honesty has an enemy…a mass of torch wielding words with an aim to quash it.

My heart is as black as the sole of a shoe or as the lump of coal that is by the fire; it was he that has left this darkness over my life. He took the moon and the sun…he took my east and my west…he took what is before me and what is behind me.

Honesty is loud…a booming voice that sometimes lessens to a quietly spoken calmness.

It's the same when love comes to an end and people say they knew it was a mistake that everybody said it would never work. That I was old enough to know better. Anything worth doing is, in fact, worth doing badly. But, one can say, we loved…some parts of us loved…and the rest of us will forever remain two persons.

Honesty has no allies…few are prepared to fight for its cause.

He was the wind and I the sea; there is no splendor any more, I have grown listless as the pool beside the shore. But though the pool is safe from storm and from the tide has found surcease, it grows bitterer than the sea, for all its stillness. So the prince has gone…and life continues…but my love for him is not withdrawn.

Honesty is hard…a rough coarseness that is, so often, cold to the touch.

In all Honesty my life has been something out of the ordinary. When I found myself disquieted by his pure and unfamiliar silence, I tried to touch him with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame. In all Honesty, he's the only person I'm utterly honest with. When we two parted in silence, truly that hour foretold sorrow to this.

Honesty is alive, but can it be found living in the lull in conversation…in the silent responses to questions? Frankly, this verse is completely honest. Like my thumbprint in fresh cement…innocent and easy to form, with a potential for immortality.

This once started as a love poem…before it found itself sitting perplexed and embarrassed while people passed it by without turning their heads.

And so I ask, if I should meet him, after time passes, how should I greet him…

with Honesty…or silence?

The Resolution

Let me start by explaining myself:

This started with a push to make a New Year's resolution. I vowed to work on the outside so "now it reflects, what's already in" me. But honestly, I wanted to work on my soul...and tell no one.

The first blog, "Getting older, I've decided, is a gift", was copied straight from an email. Not original, I know, but it said what I wanted to say about myself at the time.

Then I fell in love. I didn't mean too, but I did. My thoughts were all over and I just wanted to write and write. I thought this blogging would be the makeover my soul was craving. However, it was not meant to be. Instead, I wrote "Star Gazing"…the first sign my love was not wanted.

By mid-February, I knew both my soul and my heart would become causalities in this ridiculous game. This comprehension came in a flood of tears that begat "Even a storm can be beautiful". I realized I needed to distance myself, but again, fate stepped in by delivering an accident that I could not have foreseen.

As I returned to the life to which I had grown accustomed, things seem to move in a more positive direction. I decided my next blog would attempt to say what I was too afraid to say for myself. "A snowflake in the sea" was born. Unfortunately, it made no difference.

Now, the game has ended…completely…and I think my public writing spree has come to a close. So, in the coming days, I will leave with one last blog..."Honesty & Silence". I will then return to keeping my soul to myself.

A snowflake in the sea

I am not lost, although I long to be...

Looking up at the stars, I know that for all they care, I can go to hell. How should we like it were stars to smolder with a passion for us we could not return?

On earth indifference is the most we have to fear. Inside there stirs a quiet pain for unremembered men that not again will turn to me at midnight. Whatever they did seems still well done to me and often in my solitude I sigh.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why?

What arms have lain under my head till morning?

I have forgotten.

And yet, in their absence, I am sad and envy even the bright blue sky above them, with it’s deep, bright, and most expressive blue, between me and the midnight heaven arise. Those quiet stars may see them and be glad.

Admirer, as I think I am, of stars that do not give a damn, I cannot say what loves past my way. I do discern were all the stars to disappear, I would learn to look at an empty sky. I cannot, now that I see them, say I missed one terribly all day.

I do not love and yet, I know not why. I know only that the universe sang in me for a while, but in me sings no more. And I realize, if equal affection cannot exist, let the more loving one be me.

I am not lost, although I long to be. Lost as a candle lit at noon…or as a snowflake in the sea.

Even a storm can be beautiful.

Last night, my winds shifted, my thunder rumbled and a downpour of tears spawned a storm of torrential heartache. My soul was pounded with its ferocity.

I rained…

I was reminded that when I was born, I was crying while everyone around me was smiling.

My storm continued to rage soundlessly and I reviled. Giving someone your love is never an assurance that they'll love you back. As the wind shears through my mind I think; it takes only a moment to feel…to like…to love…but it takes a lifetime to forget someone.

Sheets of soaking pain deluged my weak spirit and I searched for the one who makes my heart smile. He wasn't there. I channeled my sorrow into the conviction that I will wait for his heart to grow and if it doesn't, I will be content love grew in mine. I will no longer expect love in return.

My thoughts are thrown sideways, the clouds swirl and I accept the reality that we don't always know what we have until we lose it. However, we can no more identify what we have been missing until it appears.

And then I saw it…a rainbow…its gentle arc calmed my aching heart. I understand that looks do deceive and my dark night brightens. I am coated with reflections…purple…trials make me strong…green…sorrow keeps me human…blue… hope composes new happiness.

I closed my drizzling eyes and the sun dried my teardrops. Happiness comes to those who hurt and cry and search and try. The blissful person doesn't have the best of everything; he makes the best of everything that comes his way.

My face is caressed with warm, nurturing fingertips. I will appreciate the importance of people who truly touch my life. And I will continue to live my life so that when I die, I'm the one who is smiling and everyone around me is crying.

My storm has passed…

Star Gazing

I arrive tonight, tangled from the waning side of nostalgia, seeking repentance and a handshake with weary arms that once carried no burden, but with breath that reeks solely of distilled bourbon which subdues the clean scent of last Tuesday.

With music on the breeze outside my window, an ancient part of me leaps to life - my hips sway, my fingers snap…my universe suddenly expands. And there, amidst the swirl of planets, stars, moons…rising...falling, there is you: the sign-less man.

Chocolate words come pouring from your lips, as I taste every letter and sentence, finding myself needing to indulge, but being rapidly reminded that our sweltering past has melted. My eyes are too swollen to squint, hope too battered to believe, face too inflated to display.

Hence, I am reluctant to believe in your moody eyes, diabolic nature, penchant for selling your soul to the highest bidder, and I say: You must be the one that got away…the one that escaped the pull of celestial seasons and ancient wisdom.

And so I arrive with hand outstretched, but I hesitate, recollect, and withdraw…dissolving my mind and heart, trimming your face from my memory to gaze at the stars instead.

Getting older, I’ve decided, is a gift.

I am now, probably for the first time in my life, the person I have always wanted to be. Oh, not my body! I sometimes despair over my body, the lack of abs, the baggy eyes, and the sagging butt. Often I'm taken aback by that old person that lives in my mirror (who looks more like my mom than me!), but I don't agonize over those things for long.

I would never trade my amazing friends for a flatter belly. As I've aged, I've become kinder to myself, and less critical of myself. I've become my own friend. I don't chide myself for eating that extra cookie, or for not making my bed. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant. I have seen too many dear friends leave this world too soon before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging.

Whose business is it if I choose to read or play on the computer until 4 AM and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 80's, and if I, at the same time, wish to weep over a lost love ... they, too, will get old.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten. It's okay; I eventually remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when someone suffers, or even when somebody's pet gets hit by a car? But broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don't question myself anymore. I've even earned the right to be wrong.

So yeah, I like being older. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be.

And I shall eat dessert every single day. (If I feel like it)