Okay…Well, my honest muse got a hold on me last night and wouldn’t let go, until I released the previous post. Evidently it scared or spooked you all – you know, the truth and all that. I was going to write a long post apologising for it, but I decided against it. If you can’t handle a little truth every now and again from a guy that is just trying to tell you a story that may educate you in some manner, as I hope to be educated by each of you, then maybe you need to reflect on your own insecurities.
Look, I do get a bit long winded about the truth and perhaps I do write stuff that is a bit sad sometimes. But, that is life, with all of its ups and downs. People are like the seasons, for they are constantly in transformation, like myself.
The bullshitting fictional muse is on call from sun up ’til I get home in the evening. By that time, the grand clown of muse is ready for a nap, so I let the non-fictional/honest muse out. That muse knows all ’bout the heart wrenching feelings portrayed in some of my stories. Occasionally, he’ll add a bit more drama or change a name or place to protect the innocent, but in the end, the stories written on this blog are my own. And, you’ll have to admit that I’m one unique abstract individual. We are all unique in our own ways, and we can each express it in different ways.
At present, my muses voices are reminding me of how I laughed out loud at the guy across from me, because of the lying and scheming advances he was making towards a gorgeous blonde. They are also screaming for me to tell you of how bad I wanted to slap the know-it-all attitude out of the artsy hyper bloke sitting next to me on the bus to the museum. But, most of all, they want me to express how exhilarating it was for me to stand and almost touch art that was over four thousand years old, how captivated I was while standing in front of “The Tiber” and the “Statue of Neshor”, and how I reflected on the clay “The Passion of the God Lilu”.
As much as I love the art work itself, I always find myself thinking about the artist behind it. Who was this person? Did they have a family? Was he or she a hard labourer? What inspired them? Who supported them?
Anyhew, I hope you all have a grand weekend. Wish my sheep counting well. Baahh!
It doesn’t seem like that long ago, when our eyes met on a dance floor.Her crystalline sapphire eyes discovered mine, as I was spellbound by her beauty and grace.After fumbling through a crowd of waltzers, I reached through the darkness for her hand.She hesitated, and shuttered at my gesture for her hand.It was then that my eyes adjusted enough to realise that she was in a wheelchair.
She, in a white diamante dress, looked up at me, smiled, and asked me to sit beside her.Her parents, dressed in their finest attire, cautiously observed my ever movement.We talked for hours, as people danced to a different tune.Her blonde ringlets fell upon her elegant shoulders like the finest gold sarcenet draperies along an ivory windowsill.
I couldn’t help but be captivated by her grace and power beyond the chair that imprisoned her.She filled my heart and soul with vigour and zeal for life.At the time, I was in my late teens, yet I looked like I was about twelve.Most young women wouldn’t give me the time of day, but she did.She listened to the stories of laughter and sorrow, and I listened to hers.We would talk for hours about the silliest subjects and discuss how judgemental the world was and is.
Love was a very rare element in my young life.She was always more compassionate and loving than I could ever hope to return.I, not ever really dealing with compassionate and loving people, didn’t always know how to return it.We had our spats, but we always made up before the day was over.We had our difficulties, one being my family, and my inability to show how I felt around them.She dealt with being paralysed from the waist down with grace, dignity, and honour.
She loved me for some reason, but wanted things I could not give her at the time.She wanted a family and me.She didn’t give a damn whether I had money or a career.I loved her with ferocity and still do to a smaller degree, but I couldn’t do it.She didn’t know something.She knew about my family and a few of my medical conditions, but there was one slight detail I feared telling her.I dreaded telling her, and seeing her reaction.I laid awake at night, with heartache and eyes swelled with tears.I couldn’t tell her…I was supposed to be a man dammit.“Life is so unfair”, I thought, as I paced in my bedroom.
I could already envision the rivulets purging from her eyes.My heart thuttered as images flashed through my mind.The good images of us having kids and a loving home kept being interrupted by the reality that was my life.You see, at that point, I was not technically a man yet.I couldn’t have kids (i.e. us men doing the easy part.).I didn’t think she would understand.And, it was against martial family law for me to tell anyone my secret.I was taught to be ashamed of something that wasn’t my fault.It was a damn shame all right.
So, after pacing in the moonlight, I decided to break it off, before I had to tell her the truth – the truth about my family, the truth about my physicality, and the truth about how I felt about her.I wanted all that she wanted, yet I was unable at the time to provide it.
On a cool Tuesday afternoon, I called and asked if her to come by my work.I stood at window and watched, as she and her best friend got out of the car and assembled the wheelchair.With a smile that could melt a millennia of glaciers, she came bursting through the door, stopping patrons in their tracks.Every fibre of my being quivered, as I smiled and kissed her for the last time.
She asked me what was wrong.I waffled, while trying to turn away from her gaze.She clasped my trembling hand, and I pulled away, fearing I might spill the truth in front of everyone.Her bereft countenance washed chills down my spine.She looked at me, while biting her lower lip, and pleaded, “Who is she”?
I, seeing this as my way out, replied, “Brianna, that works here on the weekend…we’ve been out dancing”.
She raised her hand, as if to strike me, but glared at me one last time, with those innocent teary eyes, and wheeled out the door, squalling.
I saw her several times after that, and maintained that I was going out with someone.I went home that night and contemplated felo-de-se.I didn’t feel worthy to breathe air, after doing something so atrocious.
We met on several occasions and had a lot of fun together, but she never trusted me again.She finally got what she wanted, a husband and a child.I recently saw her with her son.She knows the truth now.She would have understood, if I had come out with the truth.She is happy, and I am very happy for her.
I am happy as a lamb, because I made an “A” on my last Poetry test and the Essay I turned in today.I only got to reflecting on what happened so many moons ago, when a song came across the radio waves.It is funny how a song can instantly take you back to a good or bad time in your life.
Moral of story:
Be honest and let people know how you feel, regardless of the consequences.I will never know what could have been.Don’t let the same thing happen to you!I did what I had to do against my will, for fear of what she might say or what my father or mother would do to me.If you love someone, then by god, let them know!Don’t give a damn about who says what!Follow your heart.It’ll lead you down the right course.
