The simplicity of life causes us to seek out complication. In a backward way we crave disaster. Unashamedly we crave love- any kind of love. A smile from a stranger, the squeeze of an infant's hand, a dirty proposition from down the street. Somewhere we're going to take it, even if it means having to pull.
Like complications love happens every day, and yet it never happens. We live in haunted dwellings, wear haunted clothing, return again and again to haunted sites. We have no idea of how to run from them if we wanted to. The spirits lingering are our own spirits. We've gathered armfuls of them through the years. There is no such thing as keeping to yourself. No such thing as knowing where you are going or washing yourself clean.
We continually let the universe sweep through and pour other things out, pieces of hatred, lies, regrets, and even kindness and joy. Your shrinking heart squawks Cuckoo, Cuckoo. You will let a loud person drag a conversation out of you. Endless words, each one uttered is like a butterfly out of your mouth, the constitution of a soul exhaled and wasted on those who weave in and out of your life like frightened mice. Words diminish. Let us say little and love each other because of it.
We make plans before us like a sprawling red carpet, likely to be beheaded by some bored, scheming god. Our laws, if you can define law, are already engraved beneath our skin where we cannot read them. Even before we are out of the shelter of the womb we are wanting. Just as you threatened your mother with restless kicking and false alarms so, too, will life hold you up with threats, and sex will swallow you whole. From both you will hunt for deliverance.
We stay too long- return too soon.
Until finally it feels like years of your life have been watered down and devoured by something that's been missing for a very long time.
All of this might be considered beautiful, like a blade of grass or a procession of children crossing the street. Wondrous as snowflakes clinging like pollen to your hair, or pieces of clouds reconstructing on Earth. And you, dear, are beautiful. Beautiful as anything that could be imagined and wicked as everything that cannot be escaped. The veins of city streets and country roads are your limbs and fingertips. They begin and end with you. And who might discover that our dying means even less than our living?
We expect love because we cannot help believing in it, and so we reach out for it. With the wait desire increases. When it comes, if it ever does, we're going to want to hold it so close that there's the danger of being crushed breathless. This is ecstasy, the verge of bliss and death. Who would stop there when it could be exhausted to the fullest? Draw it out a bit at least, make it last for your memories because there always follows the inevitable coming down, that indistinguishable border where fascinations begins to wane and boredom crawls in. If it never did you might only go higher, but what would you gain from that? A supreme knowledge, a fantastic vision seen through blood shot eyes that cannot feed you when you hunger or save your life.
Every living thing comes full circle. Do not ask to know when or why. Instead, listen with patience to the beating of your own heart. Listen. This may be the only sound you truly long for when you have left this world behind. More than music or soft voices calling your name. More than the hush of a green and blue sea. More, much more, than anything.