the lost man chronicles
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like a butterfly mounted in a case

in another world, another time, un autre temps et dimension, we might have been inclined to love each other eternally.

realistically though, i am afraid almost certain, that it would have eventually evolved into resignation-frustration-desperation, rather then made-to-be, made-for-me destiny and conjugal, interactive, relating, harmonious, incredulously-practically improbable bliss.

“impossible!” my sound mind resounds a posteriori, “36 years of experience indicate, induce, infer that what was, if it were…still thriving, might not have survived long beyond the thrust and throes of lust, at least for as long as the semblance of trust was not yet embattled by the druthers, those daily decisions that allow others to interfere, that smear this gloss of reality of a once-we-begin to succumb to banality, begin to anchor our way into a complacent and stable state for it is easier to relate to one another that way, no teeth-pulling, hair-pulling guessing, extrapolation of what to expect; no anxiety-ridden perplexing chagrined genuflecting in fear of rejection knee-jerk reactions; no just complacency overtaking, overriding, subsiding and providing the copasetic segue into ennui.

nope, not for me, that is why, ultimately i am happy knowing that in another world, another time, we might not have been the sublime, soul-matched perfection that hope and the lonely imagination once spuriously proclaimed, shamelessly suggesting to the vulnerable heart, that we might have, could have, would have been otherwise.


and yet, i’ll admit, part of my mind is stuck, sticky mire stuck in the muddy moment when she said “goodbye.”

had it been a lie, or a sincere “forever, adieu,” i might have en lieu of lingering, have been free and able to quietly move on. alas, I am here instead, because as she magnanimously-mercilessly suggestively asked—“hold on,” supplicating with such sincerity for some time—time to gather disarrayed thoughts together, to assemble them in some underlying semblance of order, to place them in an array of pendant penchants and probabilities, so that some day she might come back to me and grant me the opportunity to fit into her newly neat and compartmentalized, cleaned-up cranial closet of once head-and-heart pounding-turning throng of frayed sense and sensibilities.

that is why i must go—part, leave, run away, far away—leave it all behind, so that when she returns, all she’ll find is my shadow.

that’s if—she does return.

“Some say it is best to go near the center of time. Life is a vessel of sadness, but it is noble to live life, and without time there is no life. Others disagree. They would rather have an eternity of contentment, even if that eternity were fixed and frozen, like a butterfly mounted in a case.”

~ Einstein’s Genius, Alan Lightman

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