the lost man chronicles
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the light circles of love

reflecting, i ponder the magic, the moments, the not-so-tragic tragedy of the circumlocuting circumvention of the beginning to the end; the opening and closing of all the circles of light traces of love that constitute my life, the elliptic translucent bands that linger out there, out in the open-air ether of my memory—somewhere, wandering, side-by-side, with my soul.

it is amusing to know that i am but going round-and-round; to occasionally watch the old chimerical-comical reels of me falling in and out of love so fast and infrequently—the frantic pacing, the erasing of the last one, the interminable waiting for the next; the serendipitous depths of synchronicity; the genuine felicity of small things connecting us and possibility into a loosely associated continuity; the whet anticipation; the bliss, the blessing, the elation; the slow, tireless temptation and kissing and subsequent conversations with god; the beautiful and graceful and original epistolary chronicling journey; the planned and spur-of-the-moment, so seemingly spontaneous, aching minutes of surrender, warm and tender and uncanny in their crystalline, iridescent splendor and similitude of prophecy; the toe-curling, spine-bending spasms, the phantasm soul-releasing sighs reaching toward the heavens; the stillness, the soothing silence, the palpitating echo of recover, slowing-down-to one beat at a time; the sublime after-bliss and divine-solace of a single smooth somnolence that overrides all ambition, all anxiety, all movement in the still wake of this hallow and warm dying.

and then, there is the still and death-defying warmth of the circuitous art of love itself. sometimes imperceptible, sometimes unbelievable, if only for the naively foolish moments of perceive and palpable lingering perfection, the ephemeral predilection toward eternity, that suddenly carries these transitory feelings from the temporary into the fantasy of some elusive forever, and there, in the dull myopic glow of ignorance and the amorous undertow, the foolhardy lover believes that everything is possible, that dreams do come true, that there is someone out there for you (and you have found her!), that something are meant to be, and that sappiness is (i’m chuckling) sustainable eternally.

oh, you foolish pride, you are cunning, i certainly give you that. at times, rather stunning too, when you throe me into the plush fold of amour anew, and then, suddenly, withdraw the comforting furls of affectionate new hope and inflated expectations, that knit blanket of love and lust and blind trust interwoven with the tenuous strings tethered at the center of me—and yank! with one sharp tug, unplugging it all, that source of electro-magnetic inspiration—so that there i am again—alone, cold, a bit bitter, in post-coital shock, frockless, hapless and bare-boned exposed to the indifferent reality that juxtaposes the wonder of my inner world baited by a conniving mind and contriving imagination, which together each and every time so callously conspire to trick my aching heart.

in the end, and at the beginning, it is all ultimately amusing to observe love’s cycle circling from the slowly centrifugally turning center of me, looking out upon the love-light traces i see, swirling to my left, viciously coming to an end—and to my right, the uplifting delight of another dawning, edging pangfully fawning upward, alight in a state of tenderly nascent love.

“Late at night, the wife and husband do not linger at the table to discuss the day's activities, their children's school, the bank account. Instead, they smile at one another, feel the warming blood, the ache between the legs as when they met the first time fifteen years ago. They find their bedroom, stumble past family photographs they do not recognize, and pass the night in lust. For it is only habit and memory the dulls the physical passion. Without memory, each night is the first night, each morning is the first morning, each kiss and touch are the first.”

~ Einstein’s Dreams, Alan Lightman

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