I have had the benefit of solitude's mind-healing remedy over the last three years.
It was a state of mind I had never experienced before. For one reason or another, all my adult life had, until recently, been shared with an intimate partner. Memories I cherish, still vivid in the recesses of my mind, kept alive by increasingly frequent trips to nostalgia-inducing past events.
Oftentimes the seclusion and detachment reaffirms my belief that personal freedom is indeed my most precious commodity, and of incalculable value. But sometimes, especially when the "party" is over and we all go our separate ways, I am overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness and isolation.
It is during those thankfully-infrequent spells that I find my mind wandering through vast expanses of wasteland, where the deafening cacophony of silence sends me crashing into solitary confinement.
Such as last night.
Hours in the presence of beauty, when fun and laughter overflowed and my admiration for a love I can not have, increased tenfold.
The sublimely adorable person I have secretly fallen in love with over the last year, continues to evade me in a way I know to be inevitable, but Yet, I stubbornly refuse to banish from my thoughts.
I can touch her fragrant and gentle hand, but not her heart.
The reality of her not being available, brought me crashing down to earth, again, flailing in protest at life's harsh injustice.
I will have to redirect my attentions, to find someone who is as free as I am and wants to be found, as I do.
Until then, the anguish of unrequited love will continue to cause havoc in my otherwise peaceful existence.
How I would love to steer my passion with reason, as I do all other aspects of life! To desist from pointless and fruitless pursuits.
Where in the dark recesses of ones mind, does the indulgence of procuring and persevering with destructive self-chosen pain stem from?
Is mental masochism a by-product of empathy and social evolution?
If, as I suspect, it is, what possible benefit can an emotional parasite be to us, mere fragile hosts and willing carriers of such burdens?
Intimate love is, after all, nothing more than friendship with the added bonus of meeting man's undying physiological need to send forth his DNA!
Or is it?
And who am I kidding?
Intimate love may just be much more important to me than that, and sadly, much more than the mere basic mechanics such a union brings.
When I think of her, which is usually once a day but never stops, I know it is much more than a matter of life and death.
Much much more.