What does it feel like to be an ocean? Or a tree swaying in the wind? How about being a newfound love? Or birds roosting in new nest? Or new parents who see their newborn smile for the first time? Or a newborn mesmerized by the big moving things with five moving thingies at the ends?
I’ve never been any of the above (well maybe the last one a long time ago); but I’ve known all of them through their expressions of being. Meaning their feelings. I feel all of it, raw and unfiltered, as if it were me. I feel because I am human. I feel because I am receptive to the experience of feeling. I am an empath. So are you, if you want to be one.
Have you ever wondered what the rock under your feet is feeling? Or what the mountain thinks? I feel the love my mother has for me, and I love her back, and I feel her love back in return for me loving her, and how she would love me unconditionally, and how I love her unconditionally. And it grows and expands. And it is love unexpressed that drives me to madness and sadness and despair.
And I feel the unexpressed love of all those around me turning and turning. Wanting to get out until it explodes, being so misunderstood that it is sad. But in it’s root it is all love, so much love that it cannot be expressed. And so muvch grief over the unexpressed love. A conundrum by definition, a heart ache by practice. The root of all pain is love unexpressed and the root of all happiness is love unattached.
It’s been more than two years since that horrible night when I broke both our hearts. I had to end it, I just had to, although it was and is beyond my understanding. I loved you then and I love you now. This is a letter that you will never read.
You spoiled me with your open smiles, your love, and dedication. No other man can ever measure up to you. No other relationship will ever measure up to what we had. Why couldn’t I love you with my body as well as with my soul? That, my dear love, is a question I carry around day in and day out. I wonder if I can love anyone with my body, I dare not try, my soul is already in love. I would only split myself in two.
How many times I have thought about calling you, about telling you that I made a mistake, please take me back, please love me and tell me everything is ok, please tell me that it’s not too late. I miss you every day, every hour of every day. I have nothing to give you, nothing to promise you, no children to give you. I cry and I bleed for you even as I write this. All I have for you is distance. And I would take your hugs, your laughter, your smiles, your support and your ring. And I would give you nothing but more heartbreak and tears.
We were once so close, I told myself time and time again, don’t ruin this. I found you, the love of my soul, and my dissonant body disagreed. But I couldn’t love you fully and I don’t know why. I fell into indifference, I ignored my aching body, I tried to please you and hurt myself.
I still love you, I always will. Every hour of every day. I fill my head with nonsense to try to keep the hurt away. There is no end to the hurt, no end to the tears. There is no point in crying endlessly. I hope my love reaches you, I hope my love comforts you, even when I know you feel abandoned and rejected.
I love you my dear, James Blunt put it right. Good-bye my friend, good bye my lover, you have been the one for me.
It was a time of sand and blood. It was a time of caravans and veiled dances around the night fires. Blood thirsty warriors became lust thirsty men in the cold desert nights.
The women of the sand were the most beautiful and mysterious dancers they had captured. Night after night they would create a cadence with their drums and chains around their waists. The smell of spices was ripe in the air, it mixed in with the heavy incense used to keep insects away. The women would come and dance all the horror of battle away from the minds of the young warriors. Their veils carefully covered and revealed their soft golden skin in rhythm to the music and their intoxicating swaying hips. Even the chains of their captivity were instruments of beauty and spirit as they wove their dance around the tent. Thirteen goddesses captured and given to the warlord for his pleasure. Sacred wars fought in name of one or another bloodthirsty god.
Before their downfall, the sand ghosts -as they called themselves- were a vision of power and beauty in the desert sands. Sitting atop their white and gray horses, they rode the sand as though they were flying in it. A mysterious cloud of sand always preceded the women of the sand. Their veils flailed in the air weaving a song with the hooves and their battle cries. They were fierce, and strong, their name preceded them, and no town dare deny them lest they be sand cursed.
The warlord, having heard the stories, wanted them as a battle trophy.
To be continued…