The Beginnings of Something...

Lingering Sadness of Its Finality

It's a lonely time, rather solitude to be more precise. Not trying to pass judgment nor am I trying to write a novel. Well, actually, I am trying to write a novel... A novel that affects our very core and serves as merely a template of our dreams: a template of our waking memories and lasting remembrances. What were we looking for when we least expected? Who is scared to take a bus to work? Who wants a good job from 9-5?

Sex shows up at your doorstep, even as you grow hungrier and hungrier for love. The music plays in your mind a million times to be sure.

The Lingering Sadness of its finality feels like a dagger with its piercing slick blade.

Her voice, her pet-names, her incessant teasing, her affection, her energies, her generosity, her discipline, her criticisms, her toughness, her command, her presence; it as though seeing the same woman lingering there no matter the time of the day made you long for her so much more.

Silence equaled deep-seated confusion. Visions of self-improvement often questioned purpose.

Do you even remember your dreams?

Yeah, this has kept me up the month and while I value of sharing these anecdotes I tend to be on the side of skepticism when it comes to those of authorities who seek to write their own reports about the value of your soul without feeling it, nor caring about the very core. We’re all confused to be sure, but keeping it all intact proves futile to the bottom line. Can you make profit from putting your words on the page? Well, Mailer, Hemingway and Joyce seemed to find some solace in violent strokes of genius and their integrity lay intact. Did they love the same things so many of us take for granted?

You know interiority of a woman's soul lay within the eyes, deeply and introspectively, and sometimes only it’s skin-deep.

Fighting that urge to resist temptation.

The Lingering Sadness of Its Finality feels like a dagger with its piercing slick blade.

Educating yourself to the rigors of reality is the hardest fight of all. You’re alone here thinking about the girl you loved who really was the engine to your soul’s insatiability for living. She just wanted you to move on, but you hardly could believe it. Too wrapped up in your own thoughts, perhaps thinking about your own ambition and dreams. She loved you and you were too blind to see it; your career and silly creativity made you evermore obsessed with your own vision.

Today, I am merely worried about personal gain. It's the inane personal success and yet the heart lingers for her to tickle my ear once more, to shake away the pain, which lies deep within.