I'm a twenty-something citizen of the Moon, weird theatre person, and bonne vivante. I like strawberries and bananas.
This is my stream of consciousness; thoughts, visuals, sounds.
Thank you for visiting. :-)
So, what almost was didn’t get to be. I am sad, but I also feel like I’m floating in the open sea on a cloudy day. I guess it’s because I understand its end, even if it didn’t come from me. As disappointed as I am, I can’t play a blame game. It was also a short-lived little fetus of a connection.
My “I am” grows stronger everyday, more than a mere “I want”. I won’t despair over someone’s mature decision to not put up with myself. We are complex human beings, not every piece fits the next, and the more we know ourselves the more we know which pieces won’t fit in the long run. I’m aware and certain it wasn’t a question of quality or “how good”, but of wisdom and discernment.
No grudges. No baggage. No losses. Just lessons, and chapters for that book.
… I still do admit to entertaining and enjoying the idea of it.
(One last Dorothy Parker poem… I want to memorize this one.)
I know I have been happiest at your side;
But what is done, is done, and all’s to be.
And small the good, to linger dolefully
Gayly it lived, and gallantly it died.
I will not make you songs of hearts denied,
And you, being man, would have no tears of me.
And should I offer you fidelity,
You’d be, I think, a little terrified.
Yet this the need of woman, this her curse:
To range her little gifts, and give, and give,
Because the throb of giving’s sweet to bear.
To you, who never begged me vows or verse.
My gift shall be my absence, while I live;
But after that, my dear, I cannot swear.
Light of Love
Joy stayed with me a night-
Young and free and fair
And in the morning light
He left me there.
Then Sorrow came to stay,
And lay upon my breast;
He walked with me in the day,
And knew me best.
I’ll never be a bride,
Nor yet celibate,
So I’m living now with Pride
A cold bedmate.
He must not hear nor see,
Nor could he forgive
That Sorrow still visits me
Each day I live.
(Though it’s one of my favorites of her, this is why I can’t read Dorothy Parker poetry when I’m sad, or even have the faintest inclination to be sad. It just makes me sadder.)