In the coffee stores and tea houses,

In the city of angels,

In the city of trees,

In the cabin by the sea,

In the tent by the lake.

I will always carry my love for you beloved

Through raging storms I am lost in you.

In the eye of these lines, I wish for you infinite dreams.

My beloved.

And if you wish to destroy me, my dear,

If you hate me, I will carry that too.

To the bakery and the butcher,

To olympus mons,

To Mariannas trench,

To the house in the woods,

To the bed of my dreams,

To heaven on Earth.

My beloved.

#poetry #prose #love #hate #etc.

What does it mean to be in love? I struggled with this question and the following questions presented. I'd like to believe in a love that is eternal like the one shared between a father and a son, mother to daughter, or that which is shared in any long term relationship, and report to others that this is the manefestation of authentic love. But I question if this is always the case. How then does a love that was once expressed authentically find its end? If love exists then what reason lay behind the existence of infedelity? Then I reflected on some of Kierkegaards parables and came across a quote (found in the title). Just as the poet finds his suffering transformed into the beautiful music that is his poety; so too, the individual, who is not versed in the art of poetry, find his suffering transformed into works of love. It must be the case then that love is the manefestation of a shared anguish. True love, soulmates, love at first sight, all of which I believe can exist. We know they exist because we experience it and can identify it in other. There are many different forms of love just as there are many different forms of poety... my thoughts on love from a person who has, is, and will be in love.

A game is only as good as its memory. Its final moments lingering in the recesses of your mind only to eventually be lost in you, a pleasant experience. But the best games rage in your spirit. Evoking feelings of fear, hope, disaster, and triumph. Those games fill us with life. And when they leave, they leave us empty and withdrawn. Our memories of it becomes an obsession. And the obsession leaves us sick and grotesque.

After her last great game Amora saw her world fade from the sky blues and vivid greens; to the more desolate greys and blacks. She found herself in bed most of the day. Unable to eat and unmotivated to move. Struggling against herself to understand why in the mornings she cries and at night she drinks until her fair skin and shaggy hair becomes a foreign reflection of herself. She will drink until the memories of her last game becomes cloudy. But the whispers and silhouettes will continue to linger. Their voices echo off the walls like the loud moans of a lustful night. And fades in the early mornings with awkward silence. One night she was stirred awake from a dark dream. Unsure if she was reliving her last game of roulette or still dreaming. She felt a tourniquet tighten high around her arm followed by the pinch of a needle. Her breathing becomes rapid and her eyes darting from her arm, to around the room like they were following dancing flies. She feels her heartbeat felt in her temple and groans as it reverberates in her ears while she sits with the nostalgic feelings of accomplishment.

Tonight her room is dark yet unexpectedly clean. And after what seemed like a lifetime she sat with a tantalizing smile. A real smile that curved upward, wrinkling the corners of her eyes. She walks with a lightness, completely contrary to the disparaging shuffling of another day. And most notable where her lips. Plump and pink that seemed to send her words fluttering through the air to seductively caress the ears of her guest. She sat on the floor cross legged as her two guests sat both adjacent to her. She leans back as she begins to speak revealing an unnaturally long torso. A blue light spills in from another room illuminating her high cheekbones and slender neck. Her eyes held a wildness to them. In front of her, a small tray carrying 3 glasses with unknown drinks. “We will pick a glass” she begins, “ I … put something in 2 of them. Something so we won’t wake up anymore.” She finally brings her gaze to meet her guests taking a moment to look in each of their eyes. “I know which glasses they are, so, to be fair, either of you can rearrange them. So I won’t know.” As she closes her eyes she begins to tremble. She doesn’t know if it’s from excitement or fear. A drunken dizziness rocks her gently as she keeps her eyes closed until she hears a faint “okay.”

“You mix them up?” she asks.

“No …” In the other room the gently blue light turns into a deep red. “I couldn’t bear the … idea of me living… I guess you have the advantage in this roulette game.”

Amora. Her hands begin to sweat and her mouth dries up. Her smile slowly falls and her heart beats insufferably. With an assured hand she grabs a glass and drinks. Even faster and louder now, her heart beat drowns out the voices of her guests. Slowly she closes her eyes. Not acknowledging that all the glasses are empty now and the room grows quiet. Hours pass. “Goodnight” she whispers. Only opening her eyes enough to notice her friends curled up on the floor entering their own dreams. “ see you in -” she whispers again before drifting off to sleep.