The bridge of San Luis Rey

The bridge was love. The bridge that connected one side to the other was nothing more than love. The pieces of wood held together by the strength of some ropes swung above the abyss held by love. Love that is all too often overlooked. Love, that is all too often secret and silent. Love that one has not for the heart of another, but for the body and soul, mind and character of any other. Love that seems to have its grip on all aspects of human life, entwined with the thorns, climbing and growing its way to our hearts like a beautiful weed that one cannot kill, not through the lack of will or force, but through the lack of strength and bravery. Humility, holding the hands of bravery cannot be expected to bow before the vanity of our existence. But love flies like a bird released from captivity. Love if allowed will capture and discover every hidden grotto and corner just to bring to the surface something magical and incomprehensible. But love, I dare not. I am like many others, like all others, ridden with vanity and pride, love for no one else, but myself. I seek to better myself through the mirror of friends, family, but the love that I should release stays untouched for if it was let to fly, it would brake its wings and slowly but surely die. It would fall to the hole below together with those who found love and peace in the golden days of Peru, and die instantly from the shock of freedom. This short life is about finding the object of affection. But people, times, habits, desires, ambitions and methods do not change. Nothing in mankind has changed. Since the beginning of time we have yearned for the support and the nurturing, the soothing words and the pampering. There is no greater gift than the gift of love and we fight battles to pass the time with the love trapped in a helium balloon flying sky high escaping the reach of any of us. We fly machines after it into the sky and send people jumping out into the clouds to try to catch, but alas it flies. Every place, every person, every instant is a step closer to understanding that love is or us all. You may burn the one that says so. You may drown the spirit that suggests so. But you will never get rid of the wanting of love creeping into our hearts, mind, body and soul. For we need to belong. We need to walk the bridge of San Luis Rey just so we can find our selves in this lonely world and find the strength, the voice to say: love is all.

Dear Old Friend

People come and go. People live and die and love and survive. There’s always yearning for something more. I feel that I can never be complete. The darkness that descends by surprise is never far. The love that keeps me sane is completely separate from reality. But there’s this void, this whole, this physical yet purely psychological phenomenon that not only haunts me but runs twice as fast as me. I have no chance. I have no freedom but the freedom of captivity. The emptiness is never filled simply covered. People who are tired leave. They leave the race and find a resting place far far away.
The angels, the tiny little angels grow weary of the task of guiding humanity in a direction desirable to the gods above. The god of void is looking at us every minute, wanting to see change. Wanting to rid himself of the responsibility of safekeeping the void. There’s a picture on his bedroom wall.
I want to cry for myself. I want to see innocent angels invade my life and fly in circles around my room. I want to see dear old friends come to life. I want to hear the sweet music of angels made of wood, made of stone, drawn on windows secretly once more. If the world was to break down and leave us all stranded, there will surely be at least one kind soul to take us by the hand and guide us through the mess. The white angels will lift their heads and look into our eyes as they whisk us far away from this lonely life. He flies like a bird, he sees nothing that can stop his heart from screaming out love. His ropes are gracefully held by tiny hands of golden haired angels. There is no worry in his eyes, there is no sign of the struggle he always was forced to deny.
How will eyes of laughter and faces of smiles appear again? How can we see the magic that’s invisible? He imagines a world where there is no pain and no void to fill. The curtains get pulled aside. People get to choose their lives and dear old friends answer all the questions whilst staying behind. The hearts stay young and freeze on a moment so joyous to all. There are no signs of fear. There’s nothing there that reminds any of them of the void. The angels with their purple dresses and their golden flutes blow the uncertainties away.
I may never see them again. I may never feel the love, the joy, the sadness of a dear old friend. But hold my hand and tell me that we will smile. But take my pain in your tiny little hands: my dear old friend, say the words that you’ve begged for me to have.

How will we smile, ever again? I’m asking you sincerely, my dear old friend.