Confession

Is there only reality if we feel pain?

Do I only know love if it bites me back? Do I only know a good wine with a hangover? Do I only know light with shadow, sky with clouds, lips with teeth?

I love the lack of drama, but I keep looking over my shoulder. Waiting. You know, that kind of waiting. Suspension. Remember when you were a child and you stayed up too late telling ghost stories in the dark. There was that kid who would scare you with the flashlight, or by scratching on the tent… falling asleep you kept waiting for that scare. The inevitable rude awakening.

Sometimes it comes. Without drama or reason. Just like Tom’s sadness followed by the cold of numb. Or by him telling me that she was pregnant, or that he was in love with someone else… or that, damn you were lovely… but… not for me.

Why is it that the present pulls even the murkiest photograph into sharp focus?

Are we junkies for what makes us feel alive, even if it hurts. Over salting our food until we need more and more until we can no longer taste what it was meant to be.

I am afraid that love is like that.

And here I am. Loving. In this quiet way. Everyday. A green shirt hanging in the closet. Resisting the salt. But… parts of me are waiting for the sudden scrape of the branch against the fragile shell of the tent. Frightened by the boogie man in my head more than the reality of truth.

The truth is, he is a good man. I am grateful. I am loved. I love.

There is no sadness here that is not of my making. How about you? What kind of sadness do you keep?



G.