I believe. No believed in words. No, I still do. But words sometimes are slippery as stones that have been left in water a long time. Sometimes, when I try to grasp at them they slide from my fingers as I try to examine them. Sometimes, they tumble upon me crushing me beneath them. I try to find meaning, my will swings between love, confusion, grief and remorse, and my heart won't stop stinging. What else do words bring?
"You'll forget"- you say with such conviction. Is that the nature of sorrow? That it fades with time? I believe otherwise. It stays lodged below the surface of things- a stubborn thorn beneath the fingernail, making itself felt every time one brushes against it. My petty mind cannot encompass the fact that "you forget" because unfortunately I am not as evolved. When I hear the words replay in my mind over and over I feel a huge emptiness yawning beneath my feet, ready to swallow me.
I have waited, impatient for a tone I heard a long time ago- the sound of temple bells that resonates, a voice as gentle as a brook wending through pebbles- the only safe and comfortable place - so safe -so undemanding. But your other words- like rumors flit around my ears like dusky moths. Maybe there are insidious bits of truth in each one of them.
I am struck by how brief a passing moment is. How revenge can be such an overpowering force for you. I feel like a tiny boat rocking unmoored on the shore of a huge ocean waiting to see where the currents will carry me. There is an unexpected freedom in understanding that one was not as important as one had always assumed!
A fragrance, a sight, a smell - a single regret explodes in my heart, filling it with showers of burning sparks. I am still unwilling to let go. Your words had struck like hot iron, branding them in my brain. I want to live it all again- with wisdom this time!
I am a child in my mother's house, chasing after butterflies reading Misha and dreaming of love. I chase after the butterfly that evades me, sweaty and teary until my friend holds out a hand. the butterfly lands on it, and silently the hand is extended to me. And, I understanding something beyond my years then, don't grab it but gently stroke its dusty yellow wings.