|
Mudflats
by Steven CraigDear
How is your mind working today.
All these feelings that you have, you share the same types of feelings, the same intensity as so many others, but indeed, for unique and special reasons all yours.
What do you do in your life.
What is it that makes you live each day.
Where do you find your happiness when you go looking for it.
You give me a feeling. A feeling about you.
You are intense of mind. You remember everything. In particular, every slight, every lie, every disappointment, every cut. You hold them in an emotional sack, baggage you drag about with you each day, but you hold them dear to your heart as well. The pain and the misery are at least steady and true companions, as much as you would like to dump them for a real and a warm embrace, you hold them by their hair, you wave them all in front of yourself, and and in the face of every relationship you venture into.
There are reasons. Causes. Real. And perceived. Even imagined.
You are one of the truly intelligent and deeply emotional women of the world. You FEEL. It is the basis of your life and any attempt at relationship. And because of that, you need another that FEELS with the same intensity as you.
Your mind makes poetry of emotional pain. Your mind makes art of personal drama. Your life is hollow only in that far and unlit corner where you hide your passions, for all the rest is budding with promise.
You are looking keenly for the security that each of us needs. It does come in all various colors and descriptions, but yours… yours dear is indeed unique to you.
You are a special woman, for in your being, still and always will dwell that unique little girl, that precious loving daughter that dearly misses her father, and is looking for him ever and again each day, remembering and making those memories stand still for a reality that is missing.
I do not condemn you or subject you to any belittlement. I admire your strength but I know your need as a constant weakness breaking your life. You address that need, perhaps as a statement of being a submissive. No. Be you of a submissive mind or not, you are enslaved to a deep and dearly loved passion, an etched emotion, a sharply stained love, a curtained room that holds it all. It is indeed a passion that you have, to need to be so enslaved to that intense carving in your mind.
Pain is more that a cane on the backside. It is much more than any beating for passion or for rage. Pain dear, is an emotion we all share, and in its divine wrath, leaves us with the knowledge of its passing, but one we can not recall or relieve in the way that is necessary to resolve it and put paid to it. That is your pain. That is my pain. It is the pain of all those around us, to a greater or lesser bowl, to each it seems filled to overflow.
Many dear need more pain each day to cope with the attempts to wash the old pain away. In time, we merely need more pain every day, and never acknowledge why. Just pain to fog the memory, just pain to make us feel as we remembered we felt at some distant time. It is not the joy of pain that we submit to, it is the need of that inner self screaming for the only attention it has ever known, that made the person for a brief moment get on with this day, but still to face on tomorrow yet again reeling, falling, entombed in emotions and memories that must hurt us to make us feel alive.
Deeply we travel that road, and deeply involved with the path we have become. It is not because no one loves us, for surely they do. It is because they do not understand that there are those moments, those places in our turning the corners, that we see the road sign on the building’s upper story, and know that we still step in measured time and beaten emotion the drama of living within the shell of pain, of memory, of a hurt we try so desperately to bury with still more.
Loneliness is indeed a land where the castles have washed back into the sand, where the forests are but burnt embers, a mud flat where we once had dreams that now no one remembers.
It is your life to live.
To remain enthralled in the mudflats and feel the tide wash little parts of you away forever.
Or to make your own forever in a different place, on a different day, where you have taken the key and unlocked your destiny’s door, taken launch from your self entrapment and live a woman’s life in the sands of different arms, in spaces far away from only yesterday.
09/27/2009 Posted on 09/27/2009
Copyright © 2024 Steven Craig
|
