Fragments of Fiction

I wrote a letter to a girl in which I asked if we were falling or floating away or towards each other.

Heard soft voices rising and a sort of symphony that moved from silence to a roar and just watched.

It wasn’t easy to ignore my natural impulses to fire up the engine and come flying out of the garage racing towards that light I saw in the sky in the distance.

I won’t be the moth that flys into the flame but I will be the guy who sails to the end of the sea to see what lies upon the lonely isle.

I can’t ignore the rainbow and not find out if the leprechaun that lies upon the other side is friendly and willing to share his pot of gold.

Can’t just stare at the castle walls knowing I was on the other side and am not for silly or ridiculous reasons such as not asking for the drawbridge to be released.

That is what is different,.

There was a time when I would have just laid siege to the walls and now I take a gentler approach asking politely for doors to be opened.

It is remarkably effective and causes far less chaos.

The North Star

Some wolves howl because they are alone and wish not to be and others know it is a temporary thing.

They lean back and look at the north star and call out knowing eventually their call will be returned.

That answering howl comes and they walk swiftly and silently under the starry night sky towards their companion.

Time operates in the traditional sense in that it passes but it is not viewed traditionally. Some things don’t change just because time has passed.

They continue and exist regardless of the passage.

Some things simply are.

The man took out his pen and asked a girl if she really wanted to be loved and to love, paused and shared the same song but performed by two different artists.

He preferred the latter and made a mental note to ask her what she thought.

For a moment he paused again and tried to recall whether they had discussed this or not but just couldn’t remember as they had talked about anything and everything.

We were alone and I was singing this song to you
We were alone
And I was singing this song to you
We were alone and I was singing this song
Singing this song to you

Did they ever stop singing? Was there ever true silence?

They had gone for extended periods with no communication but he suspected the communication never ended.

Something about them was different and always had been. There was a deep spiritual connection between them that defied science.

It was easier to pretend there was nothing and that all they had was a coincidence because you could come up with scientific evidence to support that, but it didn’t explain nor cover all that had transpired.

Every time they were torn apart they universe conspired to bring them back together but for what end, he could not say.

Who Do You Love?

Every now and then he thought about looking her in the eye and asking the question.

She was unlikely to volunteer or confirm such thoughts unless she heard it from him first and even then she might not admit it or say anything.

If you pushed her at the wrong time at best she would say “she loved him” and then qualify it with “but I am not in love with him.”

Maybe that was true and maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe it didn’t matter because people fall in and out of love all the time so it was almost like a natural cycle or circle with them.

He wasn’t sure why he threw the last song in, just felt like it.

Maybe it was because he was in a space where he felt like he was fighting off a pack of wolves and he was tired.

So very tired that for the first time in years he thought about just lying down and taking the beating for a little while because maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t bleed to death and would somehow rise up again.

He knew it was a dangerous plan because if he let it go too far he wouldn’t have enough left to return to the battle.

But he couldn’t keep up the pace as it was and that was a problem too.

And then in the midst of it he heard her voice and remembered her telling him to go back and fight some more.

Remembered it from so many years before when she would watch him fight and encourage him to keep going.

They weren’t kids anymore and part of him felt foolish about how he loved showing off for her but there was another part, an echo from times gone by that said sometimes you can find that sweet air and breathe again.

The tall brunette tries not to let me see her eyes walk up and down me as she hasn’t decided whether to let the walls drop or build them higher.

She tells me I am shorter than she remembers and then waits for me to say it doesn’t matter if we’re lying down.

I remain silent as I am not bothered by any of this, not because I am still taller than her but because silence is my best tool.

She knows I can carry a conversation by myself if I feel like it and also knows I am capable of being stone silent for days.

We’re both posturing and dancing in a circle around the other, anxious to tear down the walls but concerned about the outcome if we do.

Funny to think how quickly we can fall in and out of routines.

When she turns away I take full advantage of not being seen and let my eyes stroll up and down.

Better Together Or Apart

During the moments of separation there are internal discussions about whether we are better together or apart.

Conversations in which we work to convince ourselves that together isn’t a good idea because it has hurdles and challenges that fantasy is best left as fiction.

Those work until the moments in which life intersects and conversation with eye contact resumes. There is a level of comfort and ease that is so deep we don’t notice it, but others do.

They remark upon it and ask how such a thing is and we laugh.

In the embrace of the midnight hours I think about that level of comfort and how rare it is, recognizing this is what it is when we are partially guarded, imagine what it is like when we let the walls down.

You could stick us in a closet or on an island and come back in a month and we would be ok because we like and maybe even still lust each other.

It is the lust part that keeps things interesting.

She tries not to discuss or acknowledge it, we suspect because it is like Pandora’s box.

It is a nice idea, except the box was opened long ago. We know what touch can do, especially when you don’t have to think about it.

Natural connection works.

We might too.

The boy wrote 10,000 letters and the girl read almost all of them.

Sometimes she told him what she thought and sometimes he had to guess.

Sometimes he saw her and caught a look in her eyes that made it clear he could still see what lay beneath the surface.

He always remembered that whatever he could see inside her she could see inside him.

One day he wrote her a letter and said he knew she still loved him and that, of course, he still loved her because the kind of love they had never could die.

It might go through periods of time in which it slumbered a bit and there would be moments where it felt like maybe slumber was too generous a word. Moments where he was sure she wondered about it as he did, but then something would happen.

Always, something would happen and he would remember.

He assumed she remembered too and that she intentionally remained silent.

Perhaps it was because she couldn’t see a way forward or perhaps it was because she would protect her own heart by not allowing entry.

He always figured she avoided spending real time with him for that reason because distance made it easier to maintain the wall and the fiction.

Of course he thought there was always the chance he was wrong, but the actions showed otherwise, at least some of them did.

A long twisty road lay behind and perhaps in front.

Sometimes he thought about just pulling her into his arms and kissing her but he didn’t.

Once she would have melted into him and perhaps she still wanted to or would again, but she wasn’t the only one to protect their heart.