Bold: Late Publishing

-Why are you publishing all of this just now? It’s been so long since…

-Detoxification. Must be an artist thing; I’m letting go of, or rather revealing, all of the art that is in me, that I have kept, that holds your name.
You see, when art is no longer mine or yours, it becomes a property of the world, and I have no right to keep it to myself.
The human condition has its own repertoire of poetry and emotion, memories of how men have lived and loved, grieved, died, risen, and lived to love again.
Forgive the late publishing; must have taken a while for the world to claim this one poem, this one story, this one melody, or even this one conversation.

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Bold: On the Length of Romance

-How long are you staying?

-As long as you need me, and keep making excuses that you do, because somewhere down the line, though I won’t admit it, I’ll need you too.

-And then?

-And then when you’re out of excuses, and I’m out of denial, we’ll both realize it’s time for me to leave, and it will only be because I am a nomad, who can never settle for any home, who has not found a home, partly because real estate has gone up so much these years, and I can only afford rent.

-So that’s it? No exceptions?

-There is one exception, rarely if ever applied. It’s that if you can walk with me, as I wander off to crazy destinations, go with me as my soul wrestles to find its place, if somehow by sheer coincidence or fate our souls share the same destination, and if you will not lose your breath at all the travelling, we can make ourselves into some sort of nomadic alliance.
You see, darling, I enjoy my loneliness so much, that I can only be with you if we can somehow become one person, but that’s too much to ask of anyone, even you.

Bold: Annie Hall

No interpretation, no commentary needed.

[Alvy addresses a pair of strangers on the street]
Alvy Singer: Here, you look like a very happy couple, um, are you?
Female street stranger: Yeah.
Alvy Singer: Yeah? So, so, how do you account for it?
Female street stranger: Uh, I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.
Male street stranger: And I’m exactly the same way.
Alvy Singer: I see. Wow. That’s very interesting. So you’ve managed to work out something?

-excerpt from “Annie Hall”

Why We Hurt the People We Love

There is this wonder about relationships, be they platonic or romantic, how they bring out the demons inside us, and how they self-destruct from self-inflicted disaster.

I’m not discussing any particular case: abuse, trauma, or just your average brother and sister, or husband and wife, just how normal people hurt each other most when they love each other most.

And I’ve come to realize that inside us is something so dark, so ugly, that we always seem to reject, to hide. I don’t know where it comes from, whether we’re all cursed with a bad side or just cursed with bad lives that bring them out. Still though, I know that the more you know someone, the more comfortable you are with them, the more naked you can be around them.

There’s a thing about being spiritually and emotionally naked around someone, something that both comforts and threatens us, it is that with being so raw, comes being so vulnerable, with all our scars exposed, and all our blemishes there in plain sight. Such nakedness is an acquired mode of being, and it demands above all, trust. And with trust comes secrets, and stories, and laughter, and pain, but also more than anything, the pain of self-discovery.

And so it is, that we hurt the people we love, not because we want to, but because we trust them with a deep, dark part of ourselves, that we deem only right to show them, however we’ve tried to repress.

And in trying to save them, we kill part of ourselves, or try to at least, for it is never easy to break our loyalty to what above all defines us, hamartia.

And it is never fully honest, to conceal or hide away, that part of ourselves which we find most unpleasant, to the people which we trust most with ourselves.

Still, in the back of our minds remains this inner guilt, this disgust towards the reality of our bitter ugliness, and we must live, half-forgiving our mistakes, half-accepting our most tragic flaws, all-regretful of the souls we broke, while failing to fix our own.

“Don’t get too close. It’s dark inside; it’s where my demons hide.”
-Imagine Dragons

To Love

It has been months,
My mouth has uttered no poetry,
My pen has written no rhyme.

It has been months,
That I can’t grab a hold of me,
Driven and led, only I by time.

And no, the rhyme does not come easy,
It does not flow like honeycombs,
There is no welcome at its doors,
And it will not dwell in homes.

Only I here, a man without word,
To speak or write of she,
Recount the torment of her prison,
She’s locked us there now, her and me.

And I cannot write without a pain,
And I cannot speak without an ache,
I cannot think with less this mem’ry,
Sweet word-blossoms, my fields won’t make.

And I am overdosed on time,
The time that was my medicine,
And I am dying still of rhyme,
The rhyme that was my only sin.

To love and not know words to speak,
That is how my love remains.
Hid, not weakened, ever bleak,
Love knows not its own love’s pains.

To love, I shed a mourner’s tear,
To days again we’ll meet not here.
To love, I write with will so small,
For love has broken all of me.