Raw, Uncut
Preamble: I wrote this on the back of my resume on the beautiful moonlit evening of August 25, 2004, from the porch of a vila near Diecimo, Italy.
It is far more powerful in ink.
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It is so difficult to love one whom you resent so much. It is yet harder to resent someone whom you love, and have loved, so much. Such is the conundrum that has plagued me these past thirty or so moonlit nights. Why do I count my days so? Perhaps because the moon was the herald of my love. She reveres it so, that no man, or beast, or fauna, could further revel in it's glow. Or perhaps it is that very glow that reminds me of her. If she loves the moon so, then it is she that is my moon. Was my moon. I find myself in err on such matters more oft than I dare admit. Admission. Perhaps this is where I failed. There were numerous times that I was unfair to her, and I find myself pondering this fact more these days. Not that she was without fault, but certainly I had more cruel moments. But not so much that she should gaze another direction with no warning. Twas my lack of admission to the depths of my love for her. Truth be told, they were alien to me. As a rock is thrown into a sea, it observes that the sea is deep. But it is only during its plummet to the seabed that it knows the sea's true depth. So it is with love. But even the depths I was aware of, I dared not show her. For if I expressed it to her, did I not admit it to myself? Am I not a man, who shall endure love and pain alike, within the confines of my soul? Or am I a man, who should bask in the pleasure of sharing my love and pain and partaking in others'? I chose the former. I chose this a long time ago. Occasionally the latter escapes. But primarily, tis the former. And so, perhaps, my undoing was written many more moonlit nights ago than I have recently been plagued. But why does she perturb me so? Has she not already torn me limb from limb that she must douse my wounds in mounds of salt? Why does she claim to love me still? Was her love not a farce that she could so gracefully swing an axe my way? Why does she wish for an encounter? To tease me mercilessly? Or to satisfy an erotic hunger? Is this what I am to her? Or is my bitterness playing on my aching heart? What if it isn't? Am I strong enough to resist? Do I satiate that same thirst within me? Do I stand by morals which at one time proved my integrity? How dare she plague my every waking moment. Why does she? Everywhere I look, love is abundant. It flows around me, and inside me. And so I think of her. Her beauty, unabashed. Her essense, pure. Her touch, soft. Her love... her love, no longer for me. A sullunness creeps in. The shadow of the clouds gathering around the full moon. I would have taken her to the moon. And if that were not possible, the moon to her. I would have upturned a mountain, turning it to a valley, and filled it with water if I had to carry one droplet
[Page 2]
at a time from the ends of the earth. I was a moth, and she, a flame. Through all my endeavours, my goals, my accomplishments, and failures, she stood stolidly by me. Now what have I to live on for? Where to go from here? What good do my accomplishments do when she is not there by my side? To whom do I turn when I falter? I shan't. I can't. I dare not falter. Nay, I must set a goal. For her to regret her decision. I must, nay I shall, set higher goals. And accomplish them. I shall learn trades, master languages. I shall soar to spiritual heights unseen and accomplish immeasurable tangibles. But for what? This is not the key to her heart. This I know. Twas the love I had; have for her. But my time has come and gone. I did not take grasp of hte moment. I shall suffer my entire life from it. I cannot bear the thought of her not with me. And so I must not bear the thought of her. I must fade into a distant, hazy memory of hers, and she of mine. How? I have willed it many times in these past thirty or so moonlit nights. My will is strong. But it cannot break the love I have. And so, I am destined to be plagued for many moonlit nights to come.
If this ever comes into her posession, let it be known to her: there is not a single soul more devout to you. Such is the definition of my name, such is the definition of my being.
[Zahid]
It is far more powerful in ink.
---------------
It is so difficult to love one whom you resent so much. It is yet harder to resent someone whom you love, and have loved, so much. Such is the conundrum that has plagued me these past thirty or so moonlit nights. Why do I count my days so? Perhaps because the moon was the herald of my love. She reveres it so, that no man, or beast, or fauna, could further revel in it's glow. Or perhaps it is that very glow that reminds me of her. If she loves the moon so, then it is she that is my moon. Was my moon. I find myself in err on such matters more oft than I dare admit. Admission. Perhaps this is where I failed. There were numerous times that I was unfair to her, and I find myself pondering this fact more these days. Not that she was without fault, but certainly I had more cruel moments. But not so much that she should gaze another direction with no warning. Twas my lack of admission to the depths of my love for her. Truth be told, they were alien to me. As a rock is thrown into a sea, it observes that the sea is deep. But it is only during its plummet to the seabed that it knows the sea's true depth. So it is with love. But even the depths I was aware of, I dared not show her. For if I expressed it to her, did I not admit it to myself? Am I not a man, who shall endure love and pain alike, within the confines of my soul? Or am I a man, who should bask in the pleasure of sharing my love and pain and partaking in others'? I chose the former. I chose this a long time ago. Occasionally the latter escapes. But primarily, tis the former. And so, perhaps, my undoing was written many more moonlit nights ago than I have recently been plagued. But why does she perturb me so? Has she not already torn me limb from limb that she must douse my wounds in mounds of salt? Why does she claim to love me still? Was her love not a farce that she could so gracefully swing an axe my way? Why does she wish for an encounter? To tease me mercilessly? Or to satisfy an erotic hunger? Is this what I am to her? Or is my bitterness playing on my aching heart? What if it isn't? Am I strong enough to resist? Do I satiate that same thirst within me? Do I stand by morals which at one time proved my integrity? How dare she plague my every waking moment. Why does she? Everywhere I look, love is abundant. It flows around me, and inside me. And so I think of her. Her beauty, unabashed. Her essense, pure. Her touch, soft. Her love... her love, no longer for me. A sullunness creeps in. The shadow of the clouds gathering around the full moon. I would have taken her to the moon. And if that were not possible, the moon to her. I would have upturned a mountain, turning it to a valley, and filled it with water if I had to carry one droplet
[Page 2]
at a time from the ends of the earth. I was a moth, and she, a flame. Through all my endeavours, my goals, my accomplishments, and failures, she stood stolidly by me. Now what have I to live on for? Where to go from here? What good do my accomplishments do when she is not there by my side? To whom do I turn when I falter? I shan't. I can't. I dare not falter. Nay, I must set a goal. For her to regret her decision. I must, nay I shall, set higher goals. And accomplish them. I shall learn trades, master languages. I shall soar to spiritual heights unseen and accomplish immeasurable tangibles. But for what? This is not the key to her heart. This I know. Twas the love I had; have for her. But my time has come and gone. I did not take grasp of hte moment. I shall suffer my entire life from it. I cannot bear the thought of her not with me. And so I must not bear the thought of her. I must fade into a distant, hazy memory of hers, and she of mine. How? I have willed it many times in these past thirty or so moonlit nights. My will is strong. But it cannot break the love I have. And so, I am destined to be plagued for many moonlit nights to come.
If this ever comes into her posession, let it be known to her: there is not a single soul more devout to you. Such is the definition of my name, such is the definition of my being.
[Zahid]
posted by Ziko | 21:22
1 Comments:
One word...amazing.
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