Monday, March 15, 2010

The Tragedy of the Cosmos

My rose colored-glasses have been shattered
And as they begin to fall piece by piece from my eyes,
A shard nicking an elbow here
Another slicing a thigh there,
Bits of her character are sharpening into focus.

Upon that unceremonious introduction
I all too quickly became besotted by the warm and familiar feelings of love.
I supposed her faultless and inerrant
As one tends to do when smitten.

Of course it is insensitive to presume someone flawless.
Insensitive indeed, to presume one pristine
only later to be grieved
In finding a discoloration about her.
Swindled one feels.
But has it been forgotten, the tint through which one was peering?

Dreadfully unfair the sting of love can be.
How inequitable it is that some have the antidote to love’s venoms,
While others are fated to feel its full potency
Coursing through diaphanous veins?

Alas, this is how it must be.
For how would one know when to breathe
If the world weren’t eternally pitching a glass of water in the face?

Yet, I would gladly bear this Anguish,
This Lament,
This Suffering,
This Consuming Fervor within me,
For her.

An entirely selfish notion it is
But it is one I afford myself nonetheless.
This small thing I am spared.
To keep the blood in my veins,
To keep the air in my lungs –
To keep my heart from eroding.

In spite of the lot,
Some sparkle,
Some twinkle,
Some coruscation of rarity I still see in her.

It is for this reason I willingly absorb her abuses.
I gladly subsume the indecencies
So that she may,
Even for the briefest of moments,
Be untouchable,
Righteous I dare say.

Granted, this may only be the appreciation of
The slightest woman of all and sundry.

However inconsequential this morsel is
I will carry on,
Following my naïve heart
Wherever it may lead me.
To the most delusional,
The most fanciful,
The most quixotic of places.

And when I am there
I will bask in the warmth of another’s grandeur,
However fleeting,
However envisaged,
However evanescent it may be.

And I will give her
Her moment of perfection.

As vain as it is,
This is the gift I have to offer.
This is the legacy I hope to pass on.
To feel wholly, each Elation,
Each Despondency,
Each Confusion,
Each Chagrin,
Each Loss
And each new beginning.

To feel all of these things,
Feel them, but not to dwell upon them.
And to remember the great loves of life
And how they were made immortal by your hand.


It is 3 days until my 21st birthday. Typically a time of great excitement and rejoice in a young persons life. However, I can't help but feel melancholy. It is not the thought of growing old that has me downcast per se. Rather it is the realization that I will enter the 21st year of my life alone. Certainly I have friends and I have family and where I would be without them only the fates know, but I haven't a collaborator, or even the memory of such a person to carry with me into this newer phase of my life.

What is more is that on the actual day of my birthday, I fear I may be alone. What a doleful way to celebrate a birthday. Lisa is to be in Ponorogo, Benita in KL, James in Adelaide. Hopefully there will still be Tom, and banana pudding.

Today the sky was mourning with me. As I sat at the table and saw the drops gain in number and in speed I felt compelled to go out. And out I went. I went right out to the back garden, with the rain tumbling down, those cold, wet, globules pelting my skin. Frivolously attempting to pierce the surface. For what purpose, I am not sure.

But there I stood in the rain. The thunder sounding violently all around me. I walked into the grotto and had a sit. As I sat I had a think. The rain permeated that little grotto. As I sat there contemplating the events of the previous days the rain continued to drip upon me. What is one to think of things and people and places and events? Is one to think anything at all? Feeling as if I should cry I stared out at the garden, but I couldn't see what lie directly in front of me. The sharp jut of stone that hung down in front of me would only allow me the sight of things in my peripheral vision. I couldn't help but feel this was metaphorical. As I am hopeless with words, I dare not work one out, but metaphorical it must have been. Though the rain was disruptive, no doubt, all was green and moist and alive. I longed for my eyes to pour as the sky at that very moment. Alas, all I could muster was one slight trickle from my left eye. The tears were there in my eyes, little pools of sadness and pain, but only one tear would let it self come into existence. It trickled down my cheek and rested for some time at my chin before being consumed by the rain, losing its identity, its purpose, its originality, its significance.

And that was it. That was all that could be done or felt at the time. I'm still waiting for the moment when I am hit by the inescapable wave of emotion that is sure to come. I only hope the rain will be there to wash away the evidence of my lament.