Perhaps a song on the radio, the most familiar way to recall the one we love. A drive along a familiar bi-way where conversations took place, hands were held, knowing smiles replace the lonely absence. A farmhouse on a piece of land that had a place to sit and run our hands through landscaped rocks while watching the woods. A bench in a park that held our lives together, alone with such sweet sensuality impossible to ignore. A walk further in, a familiar bridge in a rustic wild in a place that felt like Purgatory.
Trying to figure out ways to recall what love means is certainly a struggle when one is alone with the memory. Seeing a kiss in a movie reminds me of that one time, or any time or any moment, or that moment. Looking outside into a tranquil wintry afternoon leaves the mind imagining an experience, a time when conversation turned to intimacy, turned to eyes, and what love seemingly did mean in the moment. All these memories, all of this confusion.
I’m listening to the Moody Blues, because this is always the place I go when I try to find my center. Now more than ever, the feeling of sentiment has turned to regret, a pause in the romantic nature of whom we were, and now trying to find a way to walk out of the woods with a smile rather than a broken heart. It is a memory that recalls beauty and in that recollection the melodrama perceived in the reader’s eyes matters little to the writer, for he will experience the emotion, and the reader can choose to walk away.
I’ve written for miles my confusion with love. In my basement there are volumes of memory over decades of time, that someday I might page through, but for the moment I’m drawn away because I know the memories are too strong and I don’t want to find myself somewhere I would rather return to than just recall. Yet, today, the memory is immediate, still strong, still this is defining who I am every day when I wake and when I go to sleep. The love I feel is swollen in my heart and there is little room to breathe.
So this passage is only meant to touch on what is this meaning of love I continue to search for answers to, my soul searching sometimes bringing me to tears – I try to call them wonderful tears because without the sensation of what I feel, I could not cry with the feeling and cleansing I do find myself lost in. I wonder if that makes sense to any of you readers, the point is that despite heartache, my inability to find home again, I’m still always wanting this time to be a beautiful mystique without the negative fortune of loss.
This is a love story.