Every time I dry my boxing wraps, they become a giant tangled ball of misery. With four ends bunched into knots, they’re always a bigger nuisance in my head. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit untangling them brings me peace. It’s almost mimetic of introspection. I can’t pull on each end. I have to follow a thread, drawing it from it knots and unraveling it from the others.
I picked up a novel about moving on, at least I thought it was about such. But it turns out to be this crazy adventure/finding oneself/romance novel. Romance novel… I was enjoying it until it became very descriptive about this dude’s muscular arms. Maybe it was a bit of repressed homophobia, but I was like aw man I don’t want to read about how his arms are inviting cradles for a woman long denied love. But it was about both the man and woman… two persons who denied themselves love because they’re recovering, injured, or trying to find some redeeming qualities in themselves. Is my true self a woman in her forties pinning for rekindling romance, swooning over a novel with a cup of coffee?! Whatever.
But from this book, I’m recognizing a certain connectedness in people’s experiences. People will find heartache in life. There will always be a loss of the ‘big love’ and then the inevitable comparison of loves. My feelings are not my own. This in turn is reflective of my ex’s feelings. The sadness I feel stems from an insecurity of how nothing of our 8 years amounted to anything for her; there were no salvaging moments or feelings, of which I’ve returned to as true happiness. She wants nothing to do with me because the wounds are still too painful, our history too deep and sad for reconciliation. And they may always remain so… What I’m trying to say is the feelings are mutual, but our actions and choices differ. She has chosen silence, and in turn she has chosen herself. I have always wished that she chose herself. I always told her she should become her own person. Maybe it’s time I took my own advice.
The thing is I thought I have. After all my growth, I still choose her. At my worst, I’ve asked myself whether I simply wanted to love someone for the sake of loving. At my best, I answered no, I truly loved her with everything –right and wrong – I knew. At my clearest and purest self, I loved her for her.
But life goes on, and maybe it knows more about what we want than we do. Woah, calm the fuck down there – my teenage philosopher self is leaking.
A diamond faceted
souls of my soul refracted
varied strangers whom I’ve called upon
congregate on who I should be
our avatar, a saddened man
rank with smoke sweat and blood
–he is not enough; we are not enough
the boy tortured
the lover imprisoned
the warrior without a battle
master and slave in eternal disarray
a king without rule.
We are a man without meaning,
of longing for the halcyon,
of a person desirous
for freedom from disenchantment
To each, we say:
Give your sadness
Give your suffering
Sacrifice your identity
that we may begin anew.
The boy offered his body for destruction
the lover, his freedom
the master, his control
the slave, his shackles
the warrior, his hand
the king, his throne
Only then can we progress.
The sun and cigarettes have carved lines into my features. Side note, I should finally visit the Grand Canyon. Maybe spend a day and night in Vegas doing whatever the fuck I want: get a massage, eat some damn good food, and just wander. Maybe for my birthday