Luciana Carvo Jul 2015
Years ago I had tried to imagine true beauty; I created in my mind an image of just such a woman. I had never seen her until last night. Yet I knew long ago the phosphorescent color of her skin, her huntress profile, the evenness of her teeth. She is bizarre, fantastic, nervous, like someone in a high fever. Her beauty drowned me. As I sat before her, I felt I would do anything she asked of me. "-----" suddenly faded. She was color and brilliance and strangeness. By the end of the evening I had extricated myself from her power. She killed my admiration by her talk. Her talk. The enormous ego, false, weak, posturing. She lacks the courage of her personality, which is sensual, heavy with experience. Her role alone preoccupies her. She invents dramas in which she always stars. I am sure she creates genuine dramas, genuine chaos and whirlpools of feelings, but I feel that her share in it is a pose. That night, in spite of my response to her, she sought to be whatever she felt I wanted her to be. She is an actress every moment. I cannot grasp the core of "...." Everything "-----" has said about her is true.
I suppose this is me. Wanting to be someone else. Here's to the dream I had.
Who was dubious
had kind eyes
and spoke sweetly
She sought after
big arrogant souls
Was a mystery
like water and
vast like the big sky in Montana
loved her curves and
Once caused a man to
trace her with his tongue
hugging her hills
and valleys
to keep
Michele 5d
Stricken with, like fate.
Idolizing. Idealizing.
What makes it so?
Curiosity to obsession.

Obsession to love?

What is love?

Sought after, like gold.
Idolizing me.
Yet none to succeed but for a fleeting moment.
I envy those with their beloveds.

Even those whom have suffered loss, but still love.

Craving the “good” feelings.
Like fantasies. Wanting someone who isn’t real.
Never to give wounds time to heal.

To invalidate, or embrace?
If I don’t know what is real
And if I don’t know who I am,
Do I follow my heart?
Or is naivety my wander?

What I seek is never mine to keep.
All stories are read, not written.
Not written by me.
Spur of the moment feelings of brokenness.
In the place where memories live, fresh treasure interlopes - bright and excited like luminous watch-hands struck hard by the sun.  But the brilliance is short-lived, and as dimness sets in, the once glorious tumbles down to find rest on others that have come before.  Their collective energy now a steady, sometimes perceptible, beacon in a corner of our brain – the days of our lives.

A float-about, shimmering hand searches.  Finally, what is sought is found; either through conscious effort or because some part of the wonderful machine had a need to recall the memory, and acted upon that need; often without permission from the body whole.

The memory rests in a place where our material hands are of no assistance.  We cannot  guide and we have no choice but to trust the retrievers.  But a clutch of specters they must be.  Mischievous at times in their selection and timing.  They can masochistically hurl a hurt, or benevolently please.  But for everything there is a purpose.  We must trust.

Accept what is offered.  The gift is sublime, and save for our lives, memory is the most valuable possession we have, though the shimmering hand sometimes abuses it.  Savor the joy and the hurt, and the rainbow range in between.  But beware, the rainbow has  spear-pointed ends.

A  shock-wave that starts in your spine near your neck, speeds downward between your shoulders then makes your stomach jump with an electrical command.  That's suddenly remembering a loved one has recently been lost.  Have you felt that upon waking the following day?  I have.

A traveling bolt that strikes where the anvil and hammer must connect.  No real sound, yet perfectly audible.  Mother's lullaby.  

They often come unexpectedly, striking  the rods and cones,   intercepting normal vision and replacing it with the facsimile of a hard secret you wish you didn't hold, or the sight of something sad - both in my case.
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