“I will take friendship plus attraction any day over falling in love. For I am no fool for fickle: I search for a love that is built of friendship and can withstand the most merciless rains and flooding.”
~Waylon Lewis, Things I Would Like to Do with You.
Maybe this is becoming true… And yet….the lover and the mystic in me adores the fire, the burning away, the raging, the purification, the vitality. In the end though, I look around and all is ashes.
Now that I am a little older. Now that I have held strong for so long in the heat of soul fire. Now that I am charcoal. I catch fire easily, I burn deep and hot. Still throbbing embers after the flames are gone.
If I can hold a little more heat, take a little more pressure, go a little deeper into the earth and closer to the molten core of it all. I’ll become a diamond. I’ll reflect back the dancing light of the flames and stand clear and shining in the heart of the hottest inferno.
What to do? Perhaps the friend, who can stand through all storms, is the diamond, forged in the fires of greatest intensity. Perhaps the way out is through. What to do?
Do I want to write about all the dizzying years? The heart, wrenching? The ravished and ravaged soul, and the self I became despite and because of it? I feel so far from that now. Was it a dream?
And here I am again, in some godawful corridor, hall of mirrors…. It’s tiring, I want to get out. Is it always this way? Or do I choose unwisely. “Don’t get trapped” spoke the heavens clearly on that fateful night of folly and first forays and fingers. So much happened with fingers, pain and pleasure and the most exquisite poetry passed between us.
Yet here I am, again. Like a carousel pony with a fixed garish grin, impaled and endlessly in circular motion. Only a different rider each time, someone else getting a giddy thrill then jumping off when they start to feel sick.
Oh woe. This is why I don’t want to write about it. This cynical self-defense. This bitter narration, dubbing over the fragile depths and exquisite angles of it all. This voice that tells me no, don’t believe, and don’t ever hope. Don’t show anyone that bleeding heart in your pocket, twist out the tale with pretty irony and shadowy scorn. Oh she’s a dark one. But gutsy with it.