I push limits. Life is a journey meant to discover and grow. If we can do this while holding the hand of another that is willing to share in a journey, at the same time, exploring their own, then we know love and may lead a blessed life. But not all are meant to be shared. I am not made for it though my desire for it runs deep.
Some of us are bound to walk this world alone, but for friends we pick up along the way. Of course, society is confused by the nature of our relationships and continues to try and define it. I want natural love that is unforced and without bounds. I want love that feeds my soul with joy and reciprocates. I believe there are some of us that are not meant to have love, but to give of it freely so that others might remember it for their own. This has been the way of it for as long as I can remember, yet for some reason, love continues to fill me even in deep despair like backwash and sour candy.
It is weird to hear myself much less to see myself in the mirror, acting as if someone waits. I do not have glossy sentiments of wisdom to feel good. Being too personal makes most uncomfortable and draws criticism. Life is a solitary path and it is noticed that I should be happy with this and embrace the esoteric circumstances of a monk – to be content with nothing but my own like the one time a gold star was given for not speaking aloud. Perhaps this is the way of a writer, a dreamer, or a homeless lout that has been scrubbed over the rocks till his skin burned off. It is a lover without love other than love to give through a single expression found only in a dream, a passing of circumstance that does not yield to anything more than that moment.
This vomit page is where footsteps have strayed seeking to have what is not meant for me. It is difficult to toil with the heart and head string of reason. My hands are muddied from digging in the dirt, yet too soft for not digging deep enough. I don’t want to be alone but it is fate and one I am coming to terms with. Perhaps this is what lies with death? Perhaps that is when we know and this life is meant to break the bounds of it and to lie with true love before we are allowed to pass into another?
Love is the single most powerful strand of emotion. We regurgitate this life experience again and again until we find the one while scouring desperately through debris left behind from previous attempts. How romantic for a vampire, I suppose. But society in all its attempts to define love has only defined who should receive it through a narrow lens of ideals and commercial potential. Only beauty shall know love where beauty is love and all that it is to love shall be love. At least it is more likely.
For beauty, two points meet at an easy junction and are swept into the blissful otherworld of white fence lines and Sunday bridge parties and Wednesday leftovers. This very moment is it and either they step through the door or miss it and have an impasse. The more often these steps are missed, the less beauty remains.
Ugly weighs the heart down with things no one can explain. We wander and isolate. Ugly has been here many times and with each missed step we slide from original beauty. This is not just a physical trait, but ugly is as ugly does, feels, or loves and loves not. Most are only ugly because they are too sensitive and bought into the ideals purported as the way life is supposed to go right along with high school dance parties and college dorm life and loyal employment. Ugly is full of experience and wisdom, and love. Love because it has settled in the soul for so long it stretches at the spirit to be released, to be given reason to scream like a train whistle that celebrates its arrival.
I am an ugly. I will not know love other than the love that I can give without ever having it returned because who can love an ugly? I am coming to terms to understand this fate and will pass unnoticed in the end to drift back into the dusty halls where my life will be given like a sacrifice to those who could experience it. We are not bound to this. I am not saying that I am deprived. Love can be boring and annoying. But true love is something else and I cannot speak of that which has not been known.
An ugly that speaks too much of his or her own truth is not in a position to receive whereas there is nothing to be given and all has been washed away through reason and poor choices that fell to the illusion of love like a burning sword of truth that seared the blood of our spirit. I am sure transparency is far greater than even I give merit, but the rant of a madman is the result of too many cycles and today I care little for the response of any that have not given credence to their own plight.
To know love is to know loss. Ugly is but a metaphor.