“I cannot help but to love what I have found. A heart. Hers. It would remain isolated, without a branded kiss. I leech my own, through the vessels that remain upon my discovery. I am the sailor who throws himself overboard. I cannot love myself, not for a moment. I sacrifice myself, to see her gaze, so resplendent and astute.”– Peter A.W. Wyatt
There was once a time when the poetry I wrote possessed much feeling. Now when I write them, the feelings only bleed out, rather than erupt like a geyser. I rarely feel the “chills” I usually get when listening to my favorite songs, nor do I cry like I used to. I enjoyed weeping when on a sad memory. Strange as that sounds, it made me feel alive.
Now when I play a sad song, I feel this automatic burning in my stomach, and a tingling in my back. I can only determine that as frustration/anxiety for not feeling what I want.
Now then, I can attribute this “emotional numbness” to recent trauma in my life. Recent trauma, that involved the beloved I once had attempting suicide numerous times, after we broke off. I tried to lay the blame on myself, though it would not work. I could not feel such guilt. Was it my fault, because I was broken, too? I threw anger in any direction close to me, and it was hurled at her.
Now my emotions don’t even come, because of that. I write poetry with thought, not feeling. They feel mass produced, not inspired.
I have no idea what to do, to cure this. Maybe it just takes time to settle whatever my brain is dealing with, on its own.
It’s interesting that when I say this, I still write at least 5 poems per day. I believe that to be based on the level of persistence I had acquired during my relationship with the woman I loved. Persistence… or stubbornness, as some of that has turned into delusion. I am empathic towards much. I see problems everywhere. Though, rarely do I turn to myself to see whatever is wrong with me. This is when I want to.
All that I did for that woman I had loved, the state I saved her from, the years it took to nurture her to a better condition, the hope and strength I gave to her… it is something she personally feels is unmatched in terms of offering back. All I wanted was her hand in marriage.
All I wanted was an eternal love, an eternal union. It is why I speak so highly of such things. I am the kind of man who takes the words “disgrace” and “disloyalty” as seriously as God would know about the word “love”. And yet, I have disgraced myself in terms of not knowing who I really was. By the end, I turned from the strongest man alive to the weakest man alive, in under a second. There was a selfishness brewing beneath everything I loved about her.
I believe I am still loyal to much, that I hold these principles deeply to heart. What made me break off from the woman I loved, is not something I could have controlled. No one could, because it was an illness, or a condition, that science has not developed a cure for, yet.
My love for her braved the criminal world, braved endless thoughts of leaving this world with my body hanging from a rope, braved every misery one could think of.
Still, I care so deeply about her, wanting so much to heal from this wretched pain, that I know nothing else.
“I have given up all for her happiness. My wealth, my reputation, my dreams, my future, my mind… and then, my heart. She goes on alone, not even bothering to stop for love. Not even bothering to stop to aid the lone leaf upon the roadway, that quivers beneath the scorning sun. I am a nothing. Just a blackness. Just a dead-end that she cannot see.”– Modern Romanticism
My personal disposition for waiting, has become a tiresome one. I recoil at the task, itself. And why is this? It is because I have waited too long, for something to arrive. My beloved. Too long have we been apart, and now she is far, still too far, and for this, I loathe waiting.
Spread throughout everything, alike a contagion, and I now hate waiting for everything else. Should I preoccupy myself with another task, then only about 40% of my mind will be devoted to this other task. My focus will never surpass the mid-way, because the other 60% is set upon the waiting. Though, how does one bring things to move faster? One thing I also despise, and what conflicts with this loathing, is to know that all things rushed, never produces results of excellence.
Still, I despise the wait, despite knowing that it will bring good fortune. To wait and hope, has been said to be a great wisdom, by whoever said it. Yet, I loathe it, the process of waiting causing me to fidget and squirm, in my place when I sit, or when I am upright, I pace around my home creating step after miserable step.
Waiting is tiresome. It is loathsome, and creates dread; because, as my mind settles in with the paranoia, in with the incessant fear, my imagination scurries about the room I am in, like how shadows dance when some nearby fireplace does the same with its flame. And, now when it is almost winter, and it is cold, fireplaces are common, shadows are common, and what is most common, is a depression, a gesture of anguish from my stomach, as it perhaps goes to pit itself in my throat.
My heart longs, and it will continue to long, until her arrival.