This year's love

Is this. You are reading it. Or not. Makes little difference because it is not your love, it might not even be anything you like. It may make you feel uncomfortable, uneasy, confused by the senseless and orderless arrangement of words and sometimes emotions which are hard to decipher. When you feel adventurous you begin, mostly you never do. As abundant as my heart is, my words can only be my love. So complete. Grounding force which keeps me sane, which allows me to unmask. Completely. For you just a pastime, just something to do while the rain washes the trees outside. While the snowstorm subsides. But my soul moves with each letter typed. Stirs from its motionless sleep and looks forward to parading the beautiful creation, the curves and luscious harmonies of certain words leaning against the other. Like lovers hidden, like lustful glances across the room, like two people waiting to accidentally meet: be at the same place at the same time. These are my loves and I harbour no anger if you cannot join in. This for me is a lonely road, a solitary journey on which you can be company, but by no means are forced to take part.

This year’s love is unspoken, softly hanging in the shadows, gently rising to open the doors and windows. Then I see. Maybe only for a moment, but that decisive moment covers all doubt, rips the shaky esteem from the place of unsure and plants it straight in the middle of all that is visible. I become visible to those who choose to see. Bare but almost nonchalantly proud, I allude to my successes but only faintly. Only very quietly, most are unable to hear and therefore cannot judge. This is a fragile love, a fragile heart, not meant to stand the battering or praise. I am to grow on this journey. I alone have all the world to learn. You may know already the things I discover, may be bored by the things I decide to put on paper, but this is my path. My way of walking, of being.  My soul is young, forgive me if you already know the sentence that follows before I even think to continue the thought. You could never hurt me. These words live for me and they were chosen in this order to represent, help me with the treacherous road that I must walk in life to get to the end. This is how it is easier. This is how I will make it to the very end.

I want nothing more than for these words to have a chance to be free. I fear for their successes, their failures. We cover each other, shelter from the cold, be the fire that burns inside. With them at times I burn. Alone or not, heard or not, read or not leads to the same conclusion, the same end result, because nothing else separates me from you. Only these words, only these fleeting moments, these elusive and indifferent times that teach me all I need to know about myself. I am slowly saved. Saved from the savage reality forced upon my generation. Saved to become in wholeness all that I ever want to be. Saved to be free and content in this undertaking which will see me fail, see me hurt, see me turn from the single most fulfilling thing I know to exist in this life. This is why I write. This is why I try to write. 

This year’s love is this. You are reading it. You may like it, mostly you do not. I may need you to keep reading or I may let you go at the very top, give you permission to leave, allow you to fill the gaps on your own accord, how you wish it to continue. I will love you no matter how you choose, so will my words. We will love you in darkness and in pain. Secretly we know that what you decide to not read or read has resonated, dislodged the deeply buried, hurtfully hidden parts. Here is safe, you can run away or stay. Cry or stay solemn. Sturdy through the storm or broken by the wildly falling summer rain. This year’s love is this. You and me and these words. This year’s love will last until my heart is torn no more.