Nothing new under the sun

Perhaps the finest day of this year. The sun came out for real, and everything seemed to spasm into life; the park benches had that wonderful radiant warmth; the breeze at mid-day failed to chill as usual; fat dogs scurried for the shadows. All in all, a good day. I found it -- and am finding it still -- difficult to study today. I fear this Summer will not yield intellectual fruit at this pace. Or it will yield some dried fruit, such as those little apricots (baby ears) or banana slivers. Those dried banana things are good, eh? You ever try the chocolate-covered ones?

It's on days such as this that my heart, perhaps invigorated by sun's radiance, starts to give off those romantic pulsations. And I think "why not?" But my mind never lags far behind, and interpolates the "why?" that must logically follow. Why, indeed. Why must we not be alone? I suggested this to ME today and he had no better answer than I, except to admit to the truth of it.

It always seems such a savage saw-off: the seeming bitterness and despair, and acrimony of togetherness, along with its comforts, and reliabilities, against the forlorn repinings of the solitary life. I know that the answer my grandparents give, about the necessity to first furnish material prospects, thereby securing a mate, procreating, and then expiring in a funk of routine and unexamined rituals, doesn't really resonate for me.

What it is that I want, exactly, doesn't seem to emerge through contrast with their vision, however. I mean, the comfort and reliability and ritual that comes from being with someone isn't exactly repellent to me. At the same time, it's not enough to really justify giving up the life I currently have. Many of my friends seem to have lost in this exchange; the sacrifice of personal liberty has not been compensated for by intimacy. In fact, intimacy seems a trial, a bondage, an ordeal that constantly presents itself in voiced regrets and protestations. And so, they have suffered in compound: once, their liberty; and, again, their dignity.

But other friends seem to have won in this exchange; they seem quite happy to have given up their liberties; the freedom relinquished has been compensated for with true intimacy, support, comfort, and ritual. I dance around this word, "love," surrounding it with other nouns in the hope of shading it in by negative contrast. But I suppose they have it; they have found love by their own definition.

I wonder if this is possible for me. I wonder if my past actions in relationships can cause me to be 'in love,' to be loving. I once accused a friend that he did not truly know what love is; that he did not really 'feel' it and so expended his energies in intellectually analyzing it -- as if he could only feel it by first apprehending it in the mind. I wonder if I was talking to myself there. It might have accounted for the vehemence and outrage with which I presented myself to him.

I wondered this aloud to my ex in our last meeting. I did not say as much, but I permuted it as "I wonder if relationships are a reality for me." I still wonder this, even moreso at this time of year. When it heats up, so do my passions, and I begin, again, earnestly to seek a mate. I want to love, and to be loved. But my mind and heart are each racing the other, and neck-and-neck, the one sometimes outpacing the other; in Spring it seems the heart is the faster. Perhaps it is as Yeats says, "the falcon cannot hear the falconer."

~ Vraswell Croidlejake ~