This book attempt was going to focus on love and matters of the heart. Let’s call this Attempt 7, albeit it was several attempts that never quite organized its self into a cohesive tome. I had a layout in mind for this particular try, a contemplative paragraph or a poem for every page.
This time I began with a poem dedicated to the love of my life.
Between You and Me.
I’m a yellow droplet within a bubble blue
I am held in by a membrane that separates me from you
I see all the world a shade yellow, yellow is my only truth
Perhaps it’s because I have only seen yellow since my youth.
You are a red droplet, a globule dissimilar in hue
We inhabit the same blue bubble, yet you see not things I do
To you all the world is solely red, red is all you’ve ever known
It’s all you’ve really seen or done, red is why you’ve barely grown.
If the blue pierces my skin someday, perhaps I’ll change my view
Mingle with what lies outside, enjoy a green break through.
You too could punch past your shell, and release your infinite red
Merge with the blue beyond, see life in purple instead.
Until we each collapse our cells, we’ll remain one of each not two,
To each one’s own we are both alone, our actualities askew.
With unseen space between us, estranged we remain
See as we’ve seen, be as we’ve been, in our tricolor domain.
We cross paths without truly knowing, we shed self as residue
Breadcrumbs for none to follow, we fail our union’s debut
I peek past the depths of yellow, peer past my opaque wall
Can I see the other, when I know not if I’m a colour at all?
When there is no room for difference, we seldom see what’s true
We can analyse in our discrete dyes, and still not gain a clue
I wander our blue bubble, in search of the hope of another
But since we see monochromatically, we fail to come together.
I’d like my yellow to change your red and the bubble blue
So I rupture, bleed myself into a world that’s anew
But no matter how I dissipate, dilute or diffuse
Our realities wont combine, if you fail to take your cues.
If you gave me drops of yellow, perhaps just a few
We could chance a barter, between me and you,
So help us find some common ground, miscible unity,
Be present now, not unfound, seize this opportunity!
It was you that stirred this dialogue, and I began to write. I could not stop myself, in love. I love you still. I breathe deep, I breathe shallow. I breathe without rhythm or melody. Breaths drawn, breaths released. Breaths without you, breaths with you, time lost. Spare me the story, I am spent. I have heard it all, I have heard nothing. I have said it all, I have said nothing. We do this, you and I, in circles, in cycles, in stormy grays and blacks, grayer and darker still. A prolonged scribble you are; a scribble knotting into deep nooks of scratched, raw, unrefined line, that interrupted the white of your page once and has since been layered over by opacities of white out, trying so hard to return it to the page it once was. Yet you cannot escape the black wormy clusters of past noise that never left the crisp of your sheet behind, not even to reach me, an avid reader. The ultimate unfinished untitled, our story. One that could have been uttered any which way, but needed us both to collaborate, co-create, coalesce, to unfold in the levity of fluid ink’s spontaneous script, as life itself, a task your tight grasp of the only quill you ever held never permitted.
This book came to me when I least expected it, through natural attractions, like lint to a black dress, a moth to a flame. It began to flow from a broken heart and a broken being as that was where my pen acquainted the paper, and when the words poured out of my wound.
You noticed my small things even before I noticed them, the crease on my right arm just before my elbow bend, the birthmark at the tip of my tongue, the way my hair fell when we first met, the symmetrical moles on my inner thighs. These small things of mine are known to you, these small things I now remember because of you, these small things only you seem to notice, make all the fussy big things seem pointless and pedestrian.
I write but I am not read as I exert the effort. You read these words to hear me now, but I am long gone. The words that you are reading have been inscribed bearing this duality of tense in mind. These words are nothing more than shed skins; they merely maintain what you consider a 'current' dialogue with you. These words are a blend of the past me and the present you, making the past me present now.
Horses, unlike humans
do not self preserve at
the cost of the other,
the plural is seen as one,
there is no ‘me,’ just ‘we.’
Prey, often seen as victims
are not prized metaphors,
we would much rather be
predators, looking out for
our own self, consuming
abandoning our herds
in select isolation.
Can we not learn then,
from what we consume?
Perhaps with gratitude, we
humans will find, in horses,
connection, deep relating
and what it means to be
mutually dependent, see
the other as one’s own,
to be responsible to
and for, the whole, which
expands the known singular
into the acknowledged
many. In pouring through
you, loving you, for all
that you are, just, as you are,
I have found the horse within,
the largest expression
of my self, as herd, as
the world, alive and anew,
beyond the predator, I
have been until you.
I don’t want to be just a chapter in your life, I want to help you author your book, and share in your every story, warp my narrative into yours and weft your narrative into mine, until we are a compendium, the singular that can hold plenty. I want us to contain it all, hold it within the seam bindings of us. I just hope we make a hardcover; hardcovers stand the test of time I hear.
I write with little thought. I say what I want when I want to, this keeps things simple. Some call this honesty, some stupidity, I call it nothing and it works for me. I do not aspire to teach you anything about life, but if you learn over the course of these pages I will learn with you. I begin, I finish. You begin, but as your eyes finish each line, you begin me again. I see beauty in that.
There isn’t a person in this world that knows me and does not know of you. Everyone I meet hears my story, and my story is rich in ‘You’.
If there were half as many of you as I saw, the world would wear your face and I would fall in love with scores of you several times over daily, and be not half as concerned for my mental well being. However your long absences from my life push me to day dream, and night hope, indulgent, half baked realities where a happily ever after between you and me are an actuality. To you I am a fantasy, and to me you are a hallucination, this makes untrue our love.
I guess this is all I have, to offer, to take, to say, to keep within, to do, to undo, to save and to destroy; this is where it began and this is where it has been since. The entire world has moved on and I have remained here for you, waiting.
All that which I can do that I do without you, makes me stronger, makes me tear, leaves me wishing for the much anticipated day when I can do and return home to share it all with you.
As white light, I sweep through your prism, I radiate into seven. I am red. I am green. I am violet. I am yellow. I am orange. I am blue. I am indigo. Through you I am seven, through you one.
Changes within, changes without, diffracted colours merge, merged colours diffract, yet everything remains as nothing is lost.
I was asked to fill this page with all that is left of you. I filled it with gratitude.
This page holds significance because I still remember.
I ache for you in parts I fail to cognize; my soul is at unease, plagued by your breath drawn at a moment different from my own.
Give an inch, take an inch, and for you I’ll do the same, and maybe one day we’ll finally overcome this trench that wears our claim.
You travel to me in packets of silence, yet I always hear you loud and clear.
I miss your touch, I miss you. In all my recollections of you, for all my words and all my thoughts I still cannot recreate what it feels like to be held by you. I miss your touch, I miss you.
I imagine two people standing beneath the same night sky, under two different stellar orientations, touched by the radiance of the only full moon.
You are a part of me, never apart from me. I love you, as I love my own self.