Sorrow in Springtime

 Every now and then, and more so in the last little while, words well up in me like frantic little bubbles, drift up, and threaten to break on the surface of this all-too-still and stagnant pond once known as my blog. I am returning reluctantly today, but writing proves a wonderful distraction, as today's Saturday shift at work feels like a prison sentence. No services are scheduled, no jarring rings of the telephone annouce the departure of souls into the ether, no grieving families are arriving to collect sad, plastic containers filled with the pulverized bone fragments of their dead loved ones.

I've just returned from the overcast coolness of the cremation garden. Absently, to fill the time, I wandered among the brick walls, examining the plaques affixed to the niche spaces, silently calculating the ages of those entombed therein. I stared wistfully into the raindrops adorning the petals of pale roses and passionately-pink gerbera daisies, the tokens for the dead, seeing my own shadowy, transient reflection revealed a hundred times therein.

I have loved again, since last I wrote, and I have lost again. In many ways, this was the bitterest loss of all. A sweet, gentle musical virtuoso, a man over ten years my junior, and fraught with his own complex issues to which I was never truly privy, but which I only longed to assuage with my kisses. The moments we had together, aside from our musical relationship, were precious few. Despite the ardor of his caresses, and our many intimate conversations, I always felt as though it were all being stolen from someone else, a woman infinitely more virtuous and worthy who waited somewhere for him to find her, while I wasted his time with my unworthiness.

 How foolish to fall in love with a colleague with whom one works closely toward a final creative goal! Now, the fruits of this labor taste only of ash. I cannot bear to listen to recordings of our concert, to hear the painful precision of his fingers on the piano keys, how each note sings out as a perfect pearl spinning on a length of wire. If I catch myself listening, I will remember how these same fingertips pressed languidly against my lips while he eagerly kissed my neck, his hot breath upon my skin, or how he ran a skillful thumb over my teeth, my pointed upper canines, when, with my lips half-parted, I sighed with heady delight and a thick, trembling want of him, pulling him closer to me, wishing to become a part of him.

 Sometimes, now that he is gone, the helplessness I feel about him fills my entire body. My heart thumps dully against it, as though my ribcage were packed with cotton. Words I cannot say press achingly upon my tongue, stream out mutely from the corners of my eyes when I lay in bed at night. But he will hear me no more. His ears are stopped up to me; his eyes are blind.

I can now no longer ignore the jagged and unruly patterns of my life and behavior. The reality of these patterns, paths that I have trod with unrelenting feet until the muddy tracks are worn deep into the earth of my mind, have become glaringly apparent and hideous to behold. I know now that I can never have him back, because I loved him too much, too cloyingly, too desperately, as I did the others. But this loss has changed me more than the others, has ignited some strange motivation for penance within me. I am trying, by any means necessary, to scrub my soul clean.

 I also shun the poison of social intrigue. I avoid the company of most women, and of all men, burying myself deeper than ever in my books: religious histories, the tragedies of British queens, novels set in World War II France. Learning that there is greater sadness in the world than anything I could ever feel.

I think back to days long gone, when I was a neon bulb, a coquette, social and flirtatious, never without companionship, fashioning strings of words into hot lassos of double-meaning, with which I ensnared men's clumsy hearts, only to cast aside the rinds when I had sucked the marrow clean. I was Anne Boleyn, then, a true courtesan. But now, I am repaid for the haughty cruelty of my youth.  I embark instead on painful journey of self-improvement and reflection, away from the dazzling throngs, and I yield the glittering diadem of court life to hearts more fearless.

Moonstruck

Dear, dusty, departed friend! How long it has been since I darkened your threshold, since I turned to you to pour out the surfeit of emotions held within my constantly-overbrimming heart.

 The spectacular neglect into which I have allowed this sacred little space to fall is beyond reproach; and yet, as an emotionless graphic user interface, you possess neither the capacity nor the sentience required for disdain, for judgment or for bitterness. I return, then, quietly, and without shame or supplication, seeking desperately an altar upon which to lay my secret offerings.

Here, again, is the place where I return when fresh wounds have lacerated me, when the vague hope of a true connection with another human being has led me away on a heady chase through an entangled labyrinth of promises, presumptions and presuppositions, only to end at last in an empty, leaf-strewn courtyard where some mystical fountain, some pretty castle, or other shining prize was supposed to be. 

It's a full moon tonight, the first of the new year. I began to pay attention to the cycles of the moon some time ago. I used to believe in them, to think they held great power and magic. I believed that if I just focused my intention enough on the things that I wanted, the full moon would allow me to create a measurable shift in the universe, to effect true sorcery and to move hearts. 

But the moon is much older than any of us. For untold millennia, it has sat in baleful silence, coolly observing our useless machinations and struggles, our desperate kisses and embraces. That celestial body has witnessed us like centuries of tiny ants, playing at love and politics, scrambling frantically for crumbs. Why should my small, spindly movements, my struggles for the crumbs of life, hold any more importance than those of the millions that came before me, or the millions who will come after?

I am sick at the heart from the ways of the world; especially the viciousness of "social media", which, preying upon my communicative nature and overt desire for connection, tantalizes me with chimeras and artificial constructs of closeness, trust and companionship. 

For a while, not so very long ago, I thought that my every dream had come true. I met someone, someone incredible. His every word made my heart sing.  The problem was that, as he lived on the other side of the planet, he was never truly real.

 We talked for hours over social media - a common theme, for me - and once or twice, had a Skype conversation. I saw him in real time in front of me; I heard his silver voice, his witty turn of phrase, the music of his laughter. But for all I wanted to believe in him, I never really knew who he was at all.

Naturally, as each full moon waxes and wanes, life changes. The gentlemen appeared to me briefly, as a cycle of the heavens, but faded from view as the planet carried on its merciless trajectory and he moved on to new experiences and a rekindled old love.

 How hard it is to mourn something that was never really there! All that remains for me - indeed, all that I ever had - is the little antique locket, adorned with sapphires and delicate gold leaves of ivy, that I bought for him, that I intended to give to him some day.

 He told me once that a sapphire can bring about the best or the worst for its owner. If this be true, I would much rather the locket stayed with me forever. It's easy for me to wear curses, to carry sadness  in my heart. I wouldn't wish this burden on anyone else. And never on him, that living anachronism, that gentlemanly soul from the past, who lives a day ahead, in a future unknown to me, who deserves jewels richer than any I could ever hope to afford, who feeds on the milk and honey of life.