Lost Love

Perhaps one day we’ll meet again
In the sky or in the sea. 
And though it was water that washed us away
T’was the winds that blew you to me… 

 

I love you, but I couldn’t save you.

Only you can save yourself, darling, and what breaks my heart… is that you don’t even realise you’re drowning in a cesspool of melancholy.

I came to you and reached out, lent you a hand to pull you from all that. You tried, and climbed as far as you could until you got sucked in by the whirlpool all over again.

You tried to drag me down with you, but I refused to cave. I tried, but my feet were too rooted in the cemented foundations I’d spent years securing for myself. I tried to follow you, but the currents that flooded my path were too strong…I could only move forward, darling, but I handed you a rope to bring you with me.

We pulled and pulled, held on for as long as we could.

But neither of us could fight nature…

You got sucked in by your whirlwind, and I by the rushing rapids.

I’m sorry, my love. I tried. I know you did, too. But I’m sorry I couldn’t do what you needed me to be

 

Perhaps one day we’ll meet again
In the sky or in the sea. 
And though it was water that washed us away
T’was the winds that blew you to me…

MG

The Arguments We Forgot to Have

(Creative writing: 2016)

“If you’re sick of everyone falling for you, stop being so bloody perfect then,” she’d screamed at me, a sheer projection of inadequacy.

*      *     *     *    *

I know that feeling, I was young once, and I remember that insecurity. I also remember the effort it took to outgrow those feelings of “never being enough”, and while part of it was conscious effort to always improve every aspect that was within my control, the other part of it was simply to give it time…to give myself time.

I’d wanted to say that. I knew it was the right thing to say. But the right thing to say would’ve resulted in me having to explain myself, and then talk about my life story or how I came to that realization. It would be insulting, if anything, considering I’ve been writing about my journey for years. You don’t read it, then you ask me questions I’ve already answered countless times, in multiple ways.

Instead, you come at me with these projections and I’m shielded by my own experiences…ones I was never shy about, ones I’ve blasted expressively for years.

Calling me perfect, as if that’s not offensive. As if I’d had everything handed to me and never had to work a day in my life. As if…

Sure, you have the right to feel what you want to feel. You have to express whatever you want.

I also have the right to simply say “Ok, glad you got that out your system now. Was I supposed to do something about it?”

No, darling. I’m not.

It’s that same damn thing you do, every single time you want me to tell you how I feel, knowing that you’re not going to do anything about it. Well, I’m not either. And if the best action is inaction to let things fall into place, then so be it. But I’m not playing your games and I’m not running circles chasing typhoons.

And no, I’m not walking away. What from, anyway? A shadow? A fragment of a memory? An unfinished reality that was never made?

No, darling. Running is your thing, and fighting is mine.

It’s what we do. I’ve accepted that, over time. It’s taken long enough.

I still miss you, but I can’t hold onto what never existed, darling. Much as you wanted to exist, you chose not to, and I suppose that’s what hurts the most…is that at the end of the day, much as you wanted to choose me…you couldn’t. You chose…you

That’s okay, though. I’ve learned to live without you; it’s you who has to live with you.

And for your sake, I sincerely hope you find yourself to be as enjoyable as I found you…If anything…I hope you find you.

I hope you let yourself be found.

Again.

I love you, always.

MG

Nothing Like You

One day, our paths will cross again
One day, our worlds will merge
Day after day
Readying the way
Until the stars emerge

From behind the clouds
That sheltered you in the crowd
You hid from the spotlight —
sunlight and moonlight

But our journey is the same
Our destination is nigh
I took a train
And you, the night flight

We took a different route
Leading to the same airport
A transition point is where we met
Yet “Hello” and “goodbye” was all you sought

I remember you, my love
But the memories weren’t enough
I had to pave a way to ready
Myself for thee

So one day, my dearest,
We shall meet again
In the forest or a desert
City streets or beach
Mountain peaks, ocean deeps
Rooftops atop old bookshops

One day, you and I will meet again
But maybe not today.

 

And when we meet again my dear
She will be nothing like you…

 

I fear.

 

MG

Love. More of It.

Love…

If chasing sunshine has taught me one thing, it’s that opening your curtains means you can just let it come.
(Generally, open curtains means a tidy room first…)

*     *    *    *    *

My experience of love is one that can be expressed on so many different levels.

There is the love of the flesh, the appreciation of the physical world around us. A love of a moment, an enjoyment of a platform created by our material world. It is a fickle love, like the flicker of a sun as it bounces off a mirror, a glimpse of your smile as you try to hide behind your smirk. That blue flash of flame just before it turns orange. It is love.

There is a love of the heart, the emotional resonance of love’s existence. A love of a person, to dwell in the company of a friend, a relative, a lover, even a stranger who shares the experience of “youness” in that moment. It is a lingering love that stays, like the love of a friend who makes you laugh, the love of a relative who makes you comfortable, the love of a lover whose presence warms you. It is love.

There is a love of the mind, the mental and sentimental spark of both brain and body. A love of a conversation, a concept, an idea. It is a love that revels in whoever or whatever embodies that expression. It is a temperamental love, impulsive and vibrating at a whole different frequency. It is an intangible love, its permanence  encompassed by us. Much like the unformed winds that can rustle up leaves or up-root a tree, it is a love that is made whole in itself.

Finally, there is a love of the soul, the universe that is both within and around us. The universe of which we are both creators as well as inhabitants. Our soul is the expression of the metaphysical world reflected by our physical one. It is a love in itself, a love that consumes itself while it reflects. It is like the sun, burning at high frequencies and eating itself while regenerating the light to reflect onto the moon. It is a love that is self-reliant, self-sufficient, yet self-destructive. It is a love that provides to all and gains only from self-regeneration. It is a love that regenerates, it does not disintegrate.

Love.

I love you, so very much right now, and I’m sure you feel it, too.

MG

As I Lay Dying

(Creative writing, REALLY old one from 2011. Darker writing, found it when I was going through old material.)

———

And as I lay dying,
the sounds of the conspirators remind me
of who I was supposed to become.

It’s never too late to be who you want to be, but watching the world pass by your dying corpse, you realize there really was no purpose.

That last slash, that last pill, that little nudge… you realize all along that you made the right choice.

But the one time you wonder what it would have been like to hold on rather than back down; for that split second, a moment of the reality of what “could have been” just flashes behind your reluctant eyelids.

The knowledge that all you needed was 3 more seconds with her…and it wouldn’t be you on this end.

You would be the one standing, watching her beg for life. She would be the one asking herself what she could’ve done to change it all. She would wonder what she could have done to re-write the ending.

And that’s when you see it…you envision the blade soaring through the air and puncturing her abdomen. She screams for you to stop as you’re blinded by the rage she fed, provoked, only makes you stronger.

You kick her to the ground and she weeps. Begging for a second chance to live her life differently. Still, you can only be as merciless as she was all along.

She bred this evil monster, fueled the fire ignited once upon a time.

This version of the person she loved has been warped by all the scars and venom injected into veins once innocent.

Nothing will ever mend this brokenness created by the one lying defenseless on the ground. Slowly, as she drowns in a pool of her own blood, you watch her slip away.

Merciless and too selfish to see past your peripheral vision, you wish it was how it used to be.

But now, you’re the one down. Barely able to see past the slits in your dying eyes.

You slip into a coma.

It’s over.

You’re dead to the world, knowing that your last thoughts were nothing but vengeance.

And still…hoping that your legacy lives on…

And as she lay dying, the sounds of the conspirators reminded her of who she could have become…

MG

Him

“You could have anything you want, you just need to take the first step out of the front door,” he had said to me, a long time ago. I never understood what this meant, but there he watched, from a distance. Waiting.

He was waiting for me, and he didn’t even know it.

His process of waiting, contrary to popular belief, did not consist of sitting on a rock meditating. Although, I’m sure he did do this from time to time, to cleanse his soul and spirit of unnecessary negativity infesting our planet. No, his process of waiting consisted of paving a way, of laying a foundation where I could easily maneuver myself closer to his realm.

He was never going to come to me, he’d made that clear from the start. But he’d make it immensely difficult to stay away — not in the form of an addiction, nor an obsession. Nay, I could put him aside easily and go back to my life at will. I’ve done so countless times, shuffling between him and her; you and I.

Easily.

Why? Because I enjoyed my own company as much as I enjoyed his. I didn’t like him more than I liked myself, but I didn’t like myself less than I liked him. If anything, I felt the exact same way about him as I did about me… and… he felt the exact same way about me as he did about himself.

I’ve never told anyone about him though, not in the way they’d expect, anyhow. I tried, a couple of times, but I could hear their unspoken doubts. The looks on their faces as they wondered, “you’re just two narcissists in love with the ideas of each other, aren’t you?”

I’d questioned that, myself, too. Countless times. Then I looked closer and realized that the self-love we both shared was not a result of self-hatred, it was not a projection to avoid the void. Our self-love was authentic. It was real. It was genuine.

It was…sincere.

Neither of us wanted to cause harm to the other, and neither of us placed the other on a pedestal. Yes, in public, he was the accomplished one with the experience and expertise. He was the one they would turn to in times of need. And I allowed that: he had more energy for the others than I did. He had more…charisma.

But in private, he was mine, and I was his. We were perfect reflections of each other: process of elimination cancelled out our equilateral differences, and together, we were one.

Literally, the same.

Some call it fate, some call it destiny.

I call it math.

But hey, semanitcs, right?

MG

(Creative writing: Him)

I Love Vous: On Polyamory

I thought I could reign it in and unify all of it, write to you, and be able to say, “Yes, it’s you.”

It’s always you, isn’t it? And yet…it never is. But the French had it right all along…I love…vous. (English equivalent: “yous”)

To you, my darling,
I miss you. It started as a simple “I enjoy your company, and you mine, why not get together and have a great time…” But it’s become a bit more that. Just a bit. Not to say I feel incomplete or inadequate without you. Not even the memories or history. I miss the possibilities. I miss when our innocence wasn’t jaded by fragments of whatever future we thought we had to stress over, when we made plans that felt more like dreams than setting concrete.
I miss when you wanted me…enough to actually show it. I miss when “making an effort” for me was never “effort”, when I was a desire not an obligation. I miss…the possibility of us.

To you, my love,
I love you. But I’ll never tell you that, at least, not sober. I love you, not in the cliche “I want to spend the rest of my life with you” kind of way — I’m not romantically idealistic.
But I love you. The you I had gotten to know, however briefly, however endless that  fickle moment seemed…but the you I love…is…unbeknown to anyone but myself. The you I love, only I have seen. No one knows you…except you and I. That “you”, that’s who I love. It is also why I wouldn’t spend the rest of my life with you…much as I adore you, the combination of us would simply explode. We’re just… too much together.
I’ll love you anyway, but I’m not going to do anything about it.

To you, my sweetheart,
You’re very likeable. I hope you know that. Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. You’re that flux between enjoying the attention but hating the repercussions. You want me to commit, but you don’t want to reciprocate. You want to commit, but you’re scared I’ll walk away. So you cling to them instead, the others who don’t seem to like each other very much…well…they probably wouldn’t, if they’d known about each other. But they don’t. And I do. Out of all of us, I’m the only one actually loving you being you. Selflessly entertained by the life you lead, knowing that simply being the desirable part of it is all I’d ever wanted. Keep being you, sweetheart, you’re amazing.

To you, my dearest,
I don’t know how you made it in. No, I don’t know why I let you in. All I know is that I made room for you, and then you disappeared. Then reappeared, wriggled your way in, got comfortable, and disappeared again. You’ve taught me not to see it as a game, to embrace it as your reality, the way you do things. It’s your “expression”. You create an illusion — for us, for them.
Never knowing where you stand, jumping on and off the pedestal they placed you on — “just because you can“, might I add — but, my dear, you do it, for all of us who wish we could.  Your absence leaves behind a presence, my dearest, and it’s one that manages to mesmerize, even from a distance. That’s you, dear, and I get it…it’s you who has yet to understand you

To you, my beloved,
We need to talk.

I love vous.

MG

(Creative writing: Polyamory)