Jun 2015
What could **** a man more than his lover’s silence? in the depths of night where the moon is most beautiful he remembers her, wishes she were there beneath the covers with him, exploring the endless possibilities that lead to the blankness of both minds. Discovering how one woman drove his pen to write with words that are contradicting, illogical, and fallacious.
He does not understand why “Her” specifically drives his thoughts to the brink of folly, why “She” would even reside in his head despite the number of women who come about to please him.
Neither does he get why her silence, her failure to return a gesture, pushes him to madness where this man who loved the thrill of adventure and uncertainty now wished to hear an answer even if it were a bitter no.
To his fear he has caught a disease that struck down great men throughout history, the only cause of death that on occasion liberate the lives of its victim but mostly bring about their demise in a way where they are forced to face their defeat under the hooves of what terrifies them most.
For weeks on end he would invite her, almost every time she would say “Yes” and almost every time on the exact hour when they would have met, she would not turn about. No warning, no apologies, just the presence of the cold seat and the man alone on the bench. The bouquet once tailored to his request that it be made worthy of her now lay on that same bench withered as quickly as it was plucked; beauty fades as fast as it was brought up, but the love of the man was by far stronger.
Thus he waited impatiently for life isn't as merciful to protagonists of romance than it is portrayed in movies and Allende's books. He who with no degree must study more diligently, he who has barely reach the age of 20 must show his competence to the world if he desires its respect, he who relies only in his talent must work the hardest where justice is distorted in a regime of a flawed system that fools its majority.
A system that must be battled if he were to keep his love; The system however would not fall so easily for it was established for more than 300 years, something so long established is already embedded deeply within the minds of his poor countrymen that they now see exploitation as normal.
His rancor in battle with his band of men would be quickly extinguished against the mass mediocre thoughts of the majority, the uneducated government, the people so used to living with the yoke of foreigners on their necks, that to the amazement of his friends he kept moving towards the impossible dream of his with great conviction that later on would be the key to his impeccable invincibility.
But for the moment he lay sick with disease, his mind so full of her in his thoughts that he could not contain his compassion towards her. if only she were like the majority he loathed so much. He would bring her alone to study her with no remorse, play with her like Beethoven would with music that is both pleasurable for him and the instruments. Instead she had to be something else entirely, a being that tames the beast within himself filling his mind with doubt towards his plan of action to conquer her.
FOOLISH! FOOLISH! relinquishing his conviction because of fear. A fear long absent and forgotten only to surface the moment he spent with her. when though? when? why did it show itself now of all times, why not with that slender figure who could play his little game of master and servant? why her instead of the aromatic madness offered to him buy the daughter of a Don? why to her when there once was a woman who played her violin for him? countless encounters where fear could have come, where madness could consume his thoughts. countless times where confidence was so inert that people questioned his humaneness yet only when she came did fear rose that paralyzed him.
Poor sad soul he thought to himself. making others dance like dolls to his rhythms but bores the one sunflower he wants to follow suit. has the past finally come to haunt him? all those affairs he shared with married and/or engaged maidens are now taxing him. foolish youth dancing with adultery, did you really think you could escape? denseness is outgrown with age and it's with experience that guilt plants its root. Time will rot away the walls you've built around yourself.
to believe or not believe is irrelevant. you have written poems and spent endless nights listening to your own voice write a sonata of words if sewed together make a book. a fraction of what you truly feel documented to appease the lingering demon whose desires push you on edge, to abandon composure and submit to compassion.
Yet despite all that, silence is the only friend that greets him
He does not understand why “Her” specifically drives his thoughts to the brink of folly, why “She” would even reside in his head despite the number of women who come about to please him.
Neither does he get why her silence, her failure to return a gesture, pushes him to madness where this man who loved the thrill of adventure and uncertainty now wished to hear an answer even if it were a bitter no.
To his fear he has caught a disease that struck down great men throughout history, the only cause of death that on occasion liberate the lives of its victim but mostly bring about their demise in a way where they are forced to face their defeat under the hooves of what terrifies them most.
For weeks on end he would invite her, almost every time she would say “Yes” and almost every time on the exact hour when they would have met, she would not turn about. No warning, no apologies, just the presence of the cold seat and the man alone on the bench. The bouquet once tailored to his request that it be made worthy of her now lay on that same bench withered as quickly as it was plucked; beauty fades as fast as it was brought up, but the love of the man was by far stronger.
Thus he waited impatiently for life isn't as merciful to protagonists of romance than it is portrayed in movies and Allende's books. He who with no degree must study more diligently, he who has barely reach the age of 20 must show his competence to the world if he desires its respect, he who relies only in his talent must work the hardest where justice is distorted in a regime of a flawed system that fools its majority.
A system that must be battled if he were to keep his love; The system however would not fall so easily for it was established for more than 300 years, something so long established is already embedded deeply within the minds of his poor countrymen that they now see exploitation as normal.
His rancor in battle with his band of men would be quickly extinguished against the mass mediocre thoughts of the majority, the uneducated government, the people so used to living with the yoke of foreigners on their necks, that to the amazement of his friends he kept moving towards the impossible dream of his with great conviction that later on would be the key to his impeccable invincibility.
But for the moment he lay sick with disease, his mind so full of her in his thoughts that he could not contain his compassion towards her. if only she were like the majority he loathed so much. He would bring her alone to study her with no remorse, play with her like Beethoven would with music that is both pleasurable for him and the instruments. Instead she had to be something else entirely, a being that tames the beast within himself filling his mind with doubt towards his plan of action to conquer her.
FOOLISH! FOOLISH! relinquishing his conviction because of fear. A fear long absent and forgotten only to surface the moment he spent with her. when though? when? why did it show itself now of all times, why not with that slender figure who could play his little game of master and servant? why her instead of the aromatic madness offered to him buy the daughter of a Don? why to her when there once was a woman who played her violin for him? countless encounters where fear could have come, where madness could consume his thoughts. countless times where confidence was so inert that people questioned his humaneness yet only when she came did fear rose that paralyzed him.
Poor sad soul he thought to himself. making others dance like dolls to his rhythms but bores the one sunflower he wants to follow suit. has the past finally come to haunt him? all those affairs he shared with married and/or engaged maidens are now taxing him. foolish youth dancing with adultery, did you really think you could escape? denseness is outgrown with age and it's with experience that guilt plants its root. Time will rot away the walls you've built around yourself.
to believe or not believe is irrelevant. you have written poems and spent endless nights listening to your own voice write a sonata of words if sewed together make a book. a fraction of what you truly feel documented to appease the lingering demon whose desires push you on edge, to abandon composure and submit to compassion.
Yet despite all that, silence is the only friend that greets him
