Besides being the widely-recognizable name of literary decadence that has galvanized my (sometimes incorrigible) book-quenched curiosity, this post is just a reminder for what was real and actual and occurring in the name of the American Dream. The propitious occasion aligns not accidentally with this the third Thursday of November celebrated as the American “Day of Thanks.”
Remember to abandon the textbook versions, in the way much like humaneness was on Plymouth Rock, that fateful day in 1620.
when opposites are aphrodisiacal its hard to define my limits, in a limestone bust that ignores the march of progress, or on a living muse projecting everything sheerly frighteningly luminously beautiful.
Upon realizing the simple fate of the individual, I know the ease with which to dismiss situational traction, ambulating frequently unto what-could-be-abundant happiness through a turnpike, and/or satisfaction with a bit of unabashed prudence, which is by all means necessary after losing it bigly.
I’m just glad to be able to reject the possibility of my sob story turning into a Lifetime movie plot or an hour of tears on Oprah. A many polytheistic thanks for this one. No one’s happy thinking about how to get there.
Even if you think you are an alien reborn on Earth, even if you speak maniacally and give lunatics unmerited credence, even if you tend to the crazy and off me at first glance, ain’t no reluctance in believing he who speaks with enviable conviction, and when the words of truth spew from his mouth, we are a pool of disciples, drinking it all in. When one speaks the truth, eventually his message resounds (by galactic writ: ultimate truth insuppressible within lifetimes for a population dejected by its absence). Fortunate, then, that the absolution of truth transcends the human capability of discernment. The absolute is known explicatively, innately, and clearly, by the collective consciousness of us, it is known divinely. There, dormant, alert, graceful, profound, quiet and all-knowing. Let us be blessed in the good news of its gradual re-veal.
And writing, as usual, has helped me ween myself of something I came to familiar comfort with too quickly. I am not sure of the rationale or not. I do know, though, that letting go of the one you love is the most beautiful gift we may give as humans, simply so: acknowledging him or her as another human being and… release. It is by far the highest form of respect, by far the noblest interaction that may take place at any time, anywhere. Any attachment to a lover is in fact, not love at all, eventhough it may seem so.
Today we face the exacting milieu of dogmas that fool us, as we cling desperately to significant others, lest they feel like they are not a priority, lest we doubt that they do not deserve our fullest adoration. All these fear-based socializations are easily dropped, fortunately, and we have the beautiful challenge of turning love into meditation. We have the ability to forget our last encounter and indulge a new and aware meeting upon reunion. We have the gift of fogetting our lover when parting, only to find him, again, newly and fresh and present.
Having been liberated, my heart beats noticeably slower, a new calm having set within me, everything clear, and no fuss. Circling. Afloat, in a garden of delicacies.
To put it best:
“Attachment and love never go together; commitment and attachment never go together. Love goes with unattachment. Then love has a purity of the other world. Then love is absolute essence, absolute pureness, innocence. And then there is a commitment. That commitment is eternal.”