Another Human Condition; Despair.

DESPAIR PART I:
A woman drowning in love.

I drew the line on sand. Drew using colored crayons. Drew bright colors so that I could see from afar the boundary that kept me in and kept you out, and kept this love within reason and within limits of the profound. Kept this love away from the regular and the profane. Drew in crayons in case one day we wanted to erase it. Crayons are not forever.

I drew a fine line in pastels and crayons on the sand that separates the todays and tomorrows. I drew on the sand where water constantly crushes against. The same sand that measures my life’s ebb and flow, my eternal go and return, the constant regular motions I make from sunrise to its sleep, departing as it always does in a prolonged yawn that echoes across the whole horizon in brilliant colors.

I drew the line in crayon knowing fully well that it would not be erased lightly. So I drew deliberately. Carefully. Almost certainly. If it had to be erased, it would have to be smudged, and compromised in an equally certain way. And so I plotted and planned and drew in fine pastels and intense definite crayons.

Now it would seem the line is not fine, and I am not refined and the sand is coarse and shifts too easily, and the water crashing against it is cold. It feels colder now than it ever did because for a moment, I looked to the sky and felt the warmth of the sun and wished with all my might that today the water would be kinder, be warmer, be mightier and that today, the water would sufficiently smudge this imprisonment that I had created (for we never really understand the choices we make. Each is a dark night unto itself). I hoped with as much might as I had the courage to muster that today, the line would be smudged and then maybe I could have a chance to walk across the universe we span in colored crayon pastel defined lines. And the water did. It seemed to cooperate with me. And I was elated and terrified and ready and ready to run.
But then the waters are cruel. While I am halfway across the line that divides us, I find myself drowning in a river of salty waters, tasting the salty turbulence drowning in my tears, and standing upon the same line I drew first. Did it not smudge? Was that not enough?

And now so that I do not die, I must build a glass wall.

OWNERSHIP. TO HAVE. TO OWN.

A story is told of a man who was in love with a woman. He was also a sad man. He would not be with her long, not the way he had initially thought. Not the way she wanted. She was crying because she felt that she could be with him forever. And she wanted to be with him. Now.

The man, gave her a flower. And sadly smiled at her. “Sorrow is for the one who receives a flower, takes it as her own, places it in a vase of water and keeps it on her windowsill. At the beginning, she will look with happiness upon the flower,and for a while,be filled with joy and love for the man who wonders the gardens of the earth seeking such a thing that would reflect her beauty, her perfection, carry her fragrance,her delicate build. She will delight in the parallels,and be glad. Then she will have to watch the flower fade, and lose its color. She will watch it wither and lose its fragrance. She will watch it shed its petals. She will suffer too the grief of loss. she will shudder at the parallels...better then is the one who sits in a field of flowers while they bloom, and sits in the same garden in its autumn and winter. For the fragrance and the color is shed from the flowers and into the ground, absorbed by the soil, mixed in the rain and scattered in the wind. In this way, she will always have the flowers. ”

And so it is with love when we have it, and try to own it. And so it is.