Refreshing the Soul

I thought yesterday about the life I was living and not loving and felt guilty that I had belittled the true value of my life for a passing seemingly one-sided fling. The misery of my broken heart pails in compassion to people with real issues for not wanting to live…like belief systems, hunger, forcing the powers that be to recognise the truth of your peoples’ existence….you know, those issues that make you a martyr for laying down your life.

I am ashamed of my subordinating the importance of life to a failed attempt at union and I do apologise, but as I look at life and my life now, I cannot see where and how this broken heart can be mended. He breaks me, he breaks my spirit. The quasi happy/playful person I was is no more because he doesn’t say yes. A part of me can’t believe that I fell prey to life’s sweet catalyst for despair…he is my despair.

The series of moments which have characterised the months preceding and which I know cannot continue, are proof of my fluid grip on self…and I send messages to my heart that I must not, shall not, be this eager to be with him …but, it fails to connect so I am left to put my heart on the line, time and time again for its now usual denial. But why am I not accustomed yet then?

I hate him for his hold over me, I hate him for his acceptance of his male self which allows him to be just the person he is to me, I hate him for not wanting me , I hate him, I hate him , I hate him ….and I hate me.

I have been “putting up a resistance” (to borrow from one of Reggae’s dearest sons, Beresford Hammond) and trying to work it out but when does one hold, fold and call it….hmmmmm. When does one throw in the towel and recognise failure, when does one stop banging ones head against the proverbial brick wall and just stop…to see if the blood already drawn is sufficient to cleanse the heart…..to encourage the tears which wont come over this man, because you know that until you purge yourself you are stuck in the same rut, a heart uncovered.

Tears are, I think, a necessary party to the healing process. It irrigates the soul, it relieves the burden of years, and it signals the end of the beginning and your acquiescence to the notion of conclusion. The book is closed, the pages burnt by tears forever seal shut with a piece of your heart within, never to be reopened. We still find enough to frenzy ourselves in similar but different fashion again however.

I crave for freedom, I don’t want this anymore, the stakes are too high.