Lately a lot of my friends and acquaintances have made an effort to come to my side and offer me their thoughts, support and input about the condition of my heart. I love my friends. I love how healthy we all sound when we’re talking about someone else. Isn’t it strange how we can proffer the most wonderful advice, and well said suggestion when a friend is weeping in a heap before us?
I know my friends pretty well, and have seen the state of their love lives over the years. I know that person who says “Oh, I don’t ever worry about that sort of thing” isn’t exactly telling the truth. I’ve seen them hollow inside, and staring into crowds, ducking out of walk ways to avoid people. I’ve seen their hearts break. So I know they worry. My amusement (slash) amazement at their assertion that they are unconcerned and easy-going people is so engaging that it helps a lot; Takes me out of my own head for a minute.
The friend who joins the fun and tells me all about what they’ve learning over the years. Typecasting past loves, and applying the lessons to strangers on the street. I love to people watch, and also paint with a broad brush, so this is another creative way to think of something besides myself for a while.
Unanimously the verdict according to my friends seems to be:
There is no one love. That’s a childish dream. You have to be realistic, practical, and accept what’s in front of you and carry on.
No one really said it just like that, but that’s the best mosaic of thoughts I could piece together. The general idea is that this longing for a furiously overwhelming love, where friendship, passion, obsession, attraction, desire, hunger, and longing all whirl into a relationship which you might cut off your arm for is an illusion. A lie I got from television or books when I was a kid, and absorbed into my subconscious and never let go of. And, that I need to “get ahold of myself” and “be realistic” or “practical.”
I am not a practical man. I am not terribly realistic either. Sure, I have a method of breaking down the things which paralyze me into facts, and can then diffuse the fictions of my heart, and determine the next right thing to do. That’s somewhat of a pragmatic approach to emotionalism. Pragmatic in that it looks are facts, and determines action apart from emotion. Yet, the longing which has awakened inside of me is my companion at every step. Like the Seventeen year old punk rock junkie who also comes with me. We arrive in any given situation as a poss?.
The punk kid says, “What the fuck is this?” in his mumbling side-of-the-mouth way.
He believes that there simply is no love. No one could love him. So he stinks it up, and kicks at you. He sneers and can only offer “Fuck you!” as a running commentary.
The bonfire heart doesn’t say anything.
He cracks, and pops sparks.
Burning in silence, he awaits reciprocation.
My role is to embrace the punk, and love him. He wouldn’t come with my anywhere if he didn’t, on some level, know that his attitude is a ruse. He wouldn’t lift a boot heel to complain if he didn’t know that his beliefs are merely digested fears, held for too long, way too close to his heart. And if he doesn’t know, well… that’s what I’m here for.
But what of the bonfire heart? According to all of my friends and associates, this part of myself is meant to be shelved, disregarded, and politely excused as childish, and perhaps somewhat irrational. Yet, this is the part of myself which takes the least action, makes the least demands of me, and says very little. This part of myself is a a lightness in my lungs, a rushing in my torso, a blur in my loins, and a sweetness in my mouth. Why spend so much time with a nasty punk rocker, when this part of my being is so much more interesting and positive?
My friends and confidants aside, I believe in one love. I believe that, in this world, God’s love is radiantly reflected in the eyes of all people. I have seen her. She flickers from eye to eye. She has reached out to me, and run her soft fingers across my face. She has held me in her arms and kissed me tenderly. She has waited breathlessly for me, unable to think without my hand in hers. She has opened herself up to me, and tenderly explored herself, conjuring the images of flames in her mind as her hands pretend to be mine.
I also believe that this love, this reflection of God, is a beam of my own light. I know that this overwhelming passionate connection is a light which I shine. A dear friend said just yesterday that, “It could be anyone, anyone at all… Just so long as you know that.” And she’s right. It could be anyone. Anyone at all.
And yet… no, that’s wrong. It most certainly could not be anyone. Not anyone at all. I shine this light, and radiate this love, and do not see it reflecting in all directions. No, it could not be anyone. I’m not saying that I am not selfish, rather that I am not so selfish as to believe that what I feel in my heart is universal, or true for anyone but myself. I am saying that this feeling inside of myself, alone, is simply not adequate. It could never be enough.
Yes, I am at peace. Finally. I can meditate the torrents of heartache and longing away in a few minutes of breathing. I can resume my life, and attend to the practical details of my day (kinda.) I can associate myself with people, and take the action required of me. This brings focus, and purpose to my life. But the fire never goes out.
Pray, do not turn me off. Do not shelve the innermost passion of my heart. Do not push me away. Do not come to your senses. Never try to be realistic with me. If you can squelch yourself, your heart, your longing, your love of me, beyond the perceptible range of transmission, then how wonderful for your employer, and how fantastic for your associates, but I would question the validity of your connection with me in the first place. Yes, that’s mostly the punk rocker using my mouth to speak, but somehow, I believe that this fire burns forever, and there is no controlling it. I have no wish, not one single wish, to be the master of my own fire.
Let it burn…Come, warm your hands and let us talk of kisses and how delicate my breath is on your neck.
