On Love and Living

I had embarked on my journey to rid myself of other’s intentions for me

I had to shed the weight placed on me by others

A weight I didn’t know how to prevent

The weight of being constantly misunderstood

 

The paint of another’s color on my wings

Of being taken for granted

Caged and defined

 

They had drafted me letters of goodbye

Some filled with wisdom

Of taking pictures with your heart and mind before your hands

 

Most were laced with expectation

Things to do

Things to experience

Things I was

Definitions

Things I couldn’t stand to read

I used those letters to dry my shoes after a heavy rain

Laughing at their sudden utility

 

I called no one

I sent no postcards

I cast off and into the wind

 

It was a beautiful place

Accentuated by my unfamiliarity with the language

I noticed the nuances of life so commonly overlooked

The unspoken truth in a smile

Echoing eternal joy in a moment

The outstretched hands of children wanting to be picked up

The calm tone of a voice filled with love for its own

 

I saw walls built by generations

For the sake of their generations to follow

Each stone singing from its proper place in the earth out of love

A love for its purpose and place

Cities built on hills

Cities built in the mountains

Birds perched atop buildings touched by time

 

I saw the dawn rise every morning

 

I walked through twilight

With the moon illuminating the fog around me

And heard the promise of water in the valley below

Meeting in love the earth from its fall

 

I held these moments in my heart along the way

 

I opened up to strangers

And spoke about the existence of God

About the utility of wisdom

And the beauty of a life lived deeply

 

In the night I walked

Stepping through the bramble

Down large rocks and boulders

 

In the day I walked

Glancing at the open terrain

At the birds taking to the skies

At the ocean meeting the earth

 

Along the way

I met the challenge of a great climb

The sun shone brightly overhead

The air cool

The wind blew freely

And I entered into the woods at the base of a mountain

Heeding the advice of three women, I took off my shoes

 

I ascended the path feeling everything

I lived with a heart wide open to the day

A heart that would meet the eyes of a deaf woman

A heart to be warmed by her touch

As she looked into my eyes and smiled

 

I heard the galloping horses

And took to the side of the path

To see the look on the young rider’s face

Eyes wide with disbelief that I held my shoes in my hands

Walking barefoot along the path

 

I focused my life on each footfall

I focused my mind in the moment

And shed all of that weight

I shook off the ink on my wings

Those expectations for my love

And lived with my colors exposed

 

I whispered to God as I neared the top of the mountain

And asked who I was

For so long I had been blind to my beauty

And I felt some touch course through my being

As the question flew from my lips

And heard “You are my joy” come to me in song

And I paused to wipe my eyes under a tree

 

A tree that knew best how to catch the light

Its life lived between the darkness and the light

A tree to hold me upright

As it reached up and over the road

Enveloping the path in its shade

A house for birds to share in love

Its roots plunging into the depths of the earth below

Growing up and out of the pains of its past

 

And on I went

 

Eventually the slope evened

And I paced into a small town

I saw the gardens

The life

The small church and statues

It was there that I saw the old man

 

He was bent over looking at the wall

A wall that had crumbled and needed repair

A large stone rest beside him on the rocky road

I approached him and asked if I could help

 

He replied with words I did not understand

So I pointed at the largest rock

The one I thought too heavy for him to lift alone

And gestured to lift it

 

He smiled and motioned me forward

And there atop the mountain

I helped to rebuild the wall

In that city built out of love

 

And having given my love

The way that I wished

On my terms

Freely

I departed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Winter to Spring: Death and Rebirth

There is something about Fall – something in that single moment when the wind takes the leaf from its limb and sends it flying across your field of vision.

Firey reds slowly fade into grey as what had been is cast away.

 

There is something about that moment right before Winter hits, as the cold air reveals the warmth of one’s breath and the forest floor becomes covered by the fabric of a passing season of time.

Something in the breaking of yesterday’s expectations under the footfalls of the new paths we walk.

 

I once walked by a tree during late Fall and its leaves, browned and shriveled by time, were still clinging to the branches.

My love for another was lingering in my heart and so the sight stopped me in my tracks.

It was a particularly windy day and one strong gust struck the tree while I was under it.

The air around me became filled with leaves mid-flight in their liberation.

I pulled a few from the top of my red hat and a smile pursed on my lips beneath my eyes.

For a moment I forgot my loneliness. The heart of the forest had shown me the way to live.

 

The heart of every man is like this tree.

We bloom for the love of Spring.

The rain nurtures our depth of character.

Our roots go deeply into a darkness we don’t understand.

We are warmed by the love of the sun.

Into Summer we burst into life.

Our hearts become homes for the birds who pass from season to season.

Of smiles in conversations over coffee.

Of doors held open for strangers.

Of the laughter of our children.

We thirst, we drink, we grow.

Finally, the Fall hits and the labor of our love is pulled from us by time.

What we knew to be true changes.

What we knew of ourselves changes.

And into Winter’s grasp, we go.

Of life without fulfillment.

Of dreams without a clear path.

Of faith without feeling.

Aye, but the Winter is our sweetest friend,

Though in the loneliness of its grasping cold we would not think it to be so.

Winter loves us to the core of our being.

We are held still in the nakedness of our losses.

We bear withness to the transformation of our pain.

As the rain turns into snow.

And Sleep comes.

And finally,

Rest.

Acceptance.

Hope.

And then again –

From Winter into Spring

We find another reason to love.

 

I am grateful for all of the love that rests on the forest floor of my character.

I am grateful for all of the promises that made my heart open and bloom as the seasons came and went.

I am grateful for the Fall, for dissillusionment, for the scattering away of my expectations.

I am grateful for purifying snows and Winter’s sweet embrace – that I am loved even in my nakedness.

 

Some of us never plant ourselves in the earth. We go from place to place, scattering much like our leaves in the winds of change.

One day my roots will cling to something real.

One day I will look to see snow atop the limbs of my love in our field.

I will watch her bloom in joy.

I will endure the heavy rains and thunder of sadness with her.

I will watch her colors burst.

And our seasons will pass until a forest of those who bloom like we bloom surrounds us.

And time will go and I will watch my loved ones grow around me.

And when I am ready – when I have sufficiently grown enough in the eyes of my God, I will be struck down and my heart’s life will be taken from me.

Everything that I know will be stripped from me by death.

And into God’s hands, the carpenter, I will go.

And the labors of my soul will build the holy city’s walls.

And a smile will purse on my lips beneath my eyes as I am made new in unimaginable ways.

 

 

 

The Psychological Function of Emotion

You are permitted to share my thoughts, print them off, and create your own interpretations of them should you find them valuable as I hope you will.

Emotion is the sea of the soul as it stirs and crashes against the expectations of the heart; a kind of tidal lock between perfection and reality.

I dip a quill into ink, pondering what it means to feel.

Are not all men born into a romance with their own sense of perfection? The perfect lover, the perfect goal, the perfect business objective, the perfect nation, the perfect life, the perfect world…
Constantly we fall victims to the doctrines of our minds which yearn to achieve this idealized state of attaining perfection –

If I only had this one more thing in my life, then life would be properly beautiful.
If I only had this one treasure in my possession, then I would be properly rich.
If only I was without sin, then I would be properly saintly.
If only my lover would say they love me correctly, then I would be properly loved…

Yet, even after we attain that which we most desire, we come to recognize that it is not what we had thought it to be.

Our lover, for whom the passion of our hearts burst forth strikes a discordant chord and we are taken aback; we question their ability to love us before we question how we define love.
Our career, in which we actualize a sense of purpose in being productive for some higher reason, reveals its inability to satisfy that inmost validation that we seek and so we question our jobs before we question our purpose or our higher reasons.

And so, we swim from one emotional shore to the next, adrift in the pursuit of attaining the ideal state that our mind promises will satisfy us; like mice running the wheels of the ego’s desires.

Indeed, the degree to which an individual visualizes perfection and strives to attain it corresponds to the violence they are capable of inflicting upon the world or themselves for the sake of its attainment – zealous radicalism born of narrow-mindedness.

However, there is much to learn from the ideas we all carry and call perfect.
Because that perfection, that dream, that idealized goal – that is the canvas on which an individual’s psyche is projected.

That is to say that the way a person thinks, the way a specific individual houses consciousness is unique to only them. Only they think like they.
All of the schematic underpinnings of their personality which have been honed or allowed to run rampant from youth into adulthood constitute the framework through which they see the world.

In this way, the mind of an individual is quite like its own world.
Memories housed deep within the psyche that were sewn in positive emotion sculpt their mental landscape like a sunlit forest, or the warm waters of a gentle shoreline.
Likewise, memories rooted in pains and fears sculpt the landscape into towering mountains, dark dense forests, and jagged rock.

We all walk ‘in’, ‘through’ and ‘as’ the bearers of these inner worlds every day, and all of the information we receive from the real world influences how we feel. The light from the real world shines forth, casting shadows in some regions of our psyche and illuminating other regions.

Typically, the ego operates as such that we shift our eyes from reality, changing how we see truth so that the light strikes regions we are comfortable with, often leaving the looming hills in shadow – validating the biases which slope our perceptions, deepening the oceans, heightening the mountains.

But as these chasms deepen, as the differences in the landscape grow, we are more prone to instability. Victims of our own neuroticism.

How then are we to reconcile the worlds of our minds with the world we live in without amplifying discord?

We must allow every region of our inner being to be struck by the light of reality.
We must not allow ourselves to hide from the dark parts of our inner psyche. For the darkness only grows when it is not acknowledged.

We cannot thrive if we stay the same and never change.
Some individuals are comfortable living in melancholy for in those dark hills they hear music and art. Others find music and art at the shoreline and so, they too stay comfortable.

But no one changed the world by remaining comfortable.

Who we are fundamentally dictates where we reverberate the inspiration we receive from existence.
It is imperative that we take in the information which challenges us to cast light against our own darkness.
It is vital that we investigate the caverns of our thoughts and liberate ourselves from the binds of our lesser selves which demand we remain distracted and adrift.

Truth is the blade that sculpts the minds of men into houses of art.

I breathe to seek it.

Tomorrow’s Love

Her mind reflects into itself.

I catch her staring out the window contemplating some beautiful thought.

She turns and lifts her coffee to her mouth and a smile flashes in her eyes. And then, like leaves pulled from Fall’s graceful winds it fades.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask genuinely curious.

A smile flashes in my eyes and fades.

The moment is perfect.

 

I open my eyes and see her staring at me.

“What are you looking at?”

I smile widely and touch her face.

Her eyes drop and rise again like dawn shattering the night.

I want to lay there all day beside her.

She loves me too. I can see it.

A little voice calls for us from the room beside us.

The moment is perfect.

 

She breaks in my arms like water against stones.

“It will be alright,” I whisper to her fighting back tears.

My chest is wet from her.

My heart breaks with hers.

“It will be alright,” I promise to her.

I lift her face and kiss her forehead.

The moment is perfect.

 

She points to some obstacle in the distance.

Her words speak of its beauty and the beauty of all the things around it.

“After all of these years, I still marvel at how you think,” I say to her

She looks at me with eyes that reflect a need for more.

I look at the horizon and comment on the beauty that I see in it as well.

Her head falls upon my shoulder.

“Dad!”

I turn and lift our son.

The moment is perfect.

 

And so it passes by.

Time goes on.

Rain, sun, hurricanes and more sun.

And we fought the night like stars the dark.

For you and I always knew the sun would rise again.

 

All of our time together flashes before me.

I can’t control how fast I am breathing.

Our children and grandchildren fill the room and the little one holds my hand.

“Grandpa,” she says to me.

A smile flashes in my eyes and fades.

Then my darling comes to my side and touches my face.

I am seen by her.

I have been known by her.

“I am so grateful – your love was the world I longed for my entire life,” I whisper.

“I love you very much.”

The moment is perfect.

 

 

 

 

 

The Vulture – Story of the Lighted Wood

She had the kind of glow that brought music to my mind and stillness to the world. Like candles burning atop gravestones her existence was a reminder to me that eternity awaited.

I would go to the edge of the forest every night to see her.

She moved between the trees and called me forth to her but I was struck still. Held fast to the fear that against her light, my darkness would turn her love into hatred.

One day the man in black appeared to me as I sat looking into the forest.

His presence chilled me to the bone.

“For her love, you must enter in when all the light goes out,” he spoke to me.

I thought him to be some kind of prophet and asked him how he knew this to be true.

He pointed to the stars, “It is written there. The two of you will burn against the night. As one.”

I pondered the statement and looked up at her.

She sang while she walked.

Still, the man in black lingered beside me. “It is her love that you seek, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must enter in when the light goes out.”

I did not trust him.

“Why not now?” I asked, stammering in the delivery of the question.

“Try.”

He was right. Some part in me darkly restrained the advance. My mind burned for her. My heart exploded into fire for her. But I could not move.

“When will the light go out?” I asked

But he was gone.

Moments passed and I continued watching her.

I was beginning to hate myself for my inability to advance. I could not understand why I could not move. I did not understand why I could not even call out, or why when I did it was so faint that she could not hear or paid no attention to my calling.

Furious I promised never to return to her.

“For too long I have stared into the heart of my desires. For too long I have believed the lies of this forest. There is nothing to this light. She is a phantasm. I am a fool to come here.”

With those words spoken the man in black appeared to me.

That chill returned and he said nothing.

He snapped his fingers and her music stopped. I heard her let out a cry, like someone waking from a pleasant dream into a nightmare.

“Your darkness betrays her love,” he said to me. And then the lighted wood turned black.

“Enter in.”

I blinked and rubbed my eyes. She was gone but he, he was still beside me.

“Where – where is she?”

“Enter in. It is written in the stars that you will.”

I did not trust him. I did not like how he spoke to me. But I loved her. I had to find where she had gone.

I advanced slowly toward the edge of the wood and turned to look at the man.

Suddenly his cloak burst forth into a plumage of black feathers and a giant bird took his place.

I turned back to look into the blackness of the wood.

The bird flew before me to the edge of the wood and I entered in behind it.

 

 

Sticks cracked heavily under my footfalls breaking the cycle of my mind’s silent racing to find her.

Where was she? That love that I had seen, that love that I had cherished, that which had rendered me immobile but had set my heart aflight.

I reached forth with my hands extended before me and felt the damp bark of the trees.

I moved around them listening for the fluttering wings of the bird, my only guide.

But with each footstep, I felt more and more gravity in my heart. It was a weight I had never felt before, for I had cherished the comfort of her presence. I had gorged the appetite of my soul’s desires to its fill and now, now I was to learn of love’s starvation. Now I was left to face the darkness I felt unworthy to show her.

The light of the bird disappeared and the man in black drew beside me again.

“What do you hope to find in these woods, Vulture?” he asked.

“Why do you call me that?” I asked confused.

“You are a vulture. You feast upon her death in the night. You rehearse the memory of who she was to you. You exhume her love. It gives you life.”

His words pained my heart. It did not feel right to me to be called that. I did not trust him.

That cool presence washed upon me and added a cold fire to my heart’s aching.

“I know not anymore whether to believe what you say or not,” I replied wearily.

“For years you gazed upon her face, feasting on a love that are not worthy of. She is a dove. You are a vulture. In time you will come to see the truth.”

I leaned against a tree to catch my breath and felt nauseous. Now more than ever, the weight of darkness was in my heart. Like a cave opening beneath a pool of moonlit water everything that had reflected love was draining from within me. I needed her there, but she was gone. The lighted wood of my desires was black.

The man spoke again, “You made her up then. You’re simply insane.”

“No,” I replied. But I did not trust my own words.

“Yes. Yes, you made her up. The love you gazed upon you imagined. Soon you will come to recognize the nature of your fallen wings, Vulture.”

I grew angry at him, “You told me to come into the forest. You promised me -”

But he was gone.

Only the chirping of the insects broke the silence.

“Where are you?”

There was no reply.

I pushed back off of the tree, feeling the darkness of my inmost being setting into my eyes. All was lost. The very meaning for which I lived was a lie.

I shook the idea.

“You damned liar.” I spat, “Come back to me!”

But the man did not appear.

 

With a clenched fist I took a few more paces.

Finally, I had broken into a clearing in the wood.

A paper moon hung in the sky and illuminated the opening in the wood. It’s light reminded me of her.

The very thought brought me to my knees. I missed her. I needed to know she was ok. I needed to see her smile again. But she was gone.

It felt as though my body was melting into the ground.

Then I heard them call me.

“Vulture!”

I looked up and saw a man armed with a spear eying me with violent intent.

Another man shouted, “This battle is between us Wolf!”

On the other side of the clearing, another man looked upon me, also clutching a spear.

“Stag, do not be a fool. Do you not understand the consequences of our finding him? All will end now. If we allow this to come to pass everything will end.”

“We are powerless against fate. We must honor our responsibility,” replied Stag.

Wolf spat and drew near to me.

Stag came to my side as well.

“Why do you call me Vulture?” I asked them.

Wolf lowered his spear to my throat, “He doesn’t even know that he is the Vulture. This is not the will of fate. We should slay him and return to our war.”

Stag placed his spear to the throat of the other warrior and spoke to me, “You are the Vulture of love’s vision. You are the watcher of divine love. You are the promised end to our eternal conflict.”

“I rather like our conflict” growled Wolf.

The tip of his spear cut into me a little, but I felt nothing. I felt as though nothing they were saying mattered. That without love, nothing mattered.

“I don’t understand,” I replied breathlessly.

“Innocence tempered by wisdom born of suffering is the perfect judge,” replied Stag.

“Judge us, fool!” shouted Wolf.

“You are our judge,” added Stag.

Just then the branches around us rustled and from beyond them burst forth a male stag with seven points. Behind it a large wolf gave chase.

It leapt upon the stag’s back, dug its jaws into the back of its neck, and brought it to the ground.

Both warriors fell to their knees and dropped their spears at the sight.

The three of us watched the stag struggle to fight back but eventually it fell to its death to the wolf.

I turned to look at the man with the stag tattooed onto his skin.

He was breathing heavily, sweat beaded atop his forehead, and tears fell from his face.

The other warrior wore a look of zealous delight on his face. He laughed maniacally as other wolves appeared.

“I came to this forest to find my love,” I whispered.

“You came to the forest to judge us,” replied Wolf. “Now, judge – who is the strongest God on the island of fate. The wolf, or the stag?”

I found myself both attracted to and repulsed by the dark delight with which he spoke his words. For he spoke them with the kind of knowing I so longed for in my own heart. The kind of knowing she had reinforced in me when I looked at her. But it was also the kind of knowing that told me that this life was meaningless without her.

The other warrior spoke, “You will find your love. It is a consequence of your decision. Judge us.”

His words gave me hope.

“How shall I judge you?” I asked.

Wolf stood upright, “Surely my God is stronger than his God! He has torn his God to shreds! Look at how we feast upon the flesh that is weaker than our own! Look at how we hunt them down and conquer them!”

The other warrior stood upright, “Surely my God is stronger than his God. For with his life, with his sacrifice – he nourishes the very life within them! Without the blood sacrifice of my God, there would be no life in him!”

Wolf poured wine into his cup and handed it to me, “Drink from my cup. My God is more powerful.”

Stag poured wine into his cup and handed it to me, “Drink from my cup. My God is the giver of life.”

“I do not want to drink from your cup,” I replied. “None of it matters to me.”

“You are the Vulture. You must drink from the cups of death to live.”

“I do not wish to judge you. I do not care about living without my love.”

“Wolf became angry. You are bound by fate to drink a cup and judge. Choose!”

Stag too grew angry, “Surely you must understand that nourishment is the foundation of life. Choose a cup! Obey your fate!”

I felt nothing. I cared not for their ideas about their gods. All that I cared about had been lost in the darkness. The darkness that I had brought. The darkness that I feared the most. My own darkness.

Black feathers shuffled before my eyes as the man in black appeared in front of us.

He spoke coldly to me, “Choose or I will end your life. You are the Vulture. The love you gazed upon you are not worthy of. You must choose or I will kill you.”

His words broke what remained intact within my heart. I did not want to be responsible for her fading away into the night. I did not want to be responsible for it. He was right it was my fault but how could I have helped it? I was powerless to my loving her. How could I have done anything about my darkness. It had been within me. I grew angry.

“I am not your Vulture!”

“Choose!” the man in black yelled at me.

“I do not believe God to be just powerful!” I yelled at Wolf.

“I do not believe God to be just nourishing!” I yelled at Stag.

“And I do not believe myself to be a Vulture!” I yelled at the man in black.

Rage filled all of their eyes.

It matched my own.

“Kill me then! I will not drink!”

Pain struck both of my sides as their spears tore into me.

I heard him laughing.

I heard them all laughing.

 

 

The man in black laughed at the dead man in front of him. He laughed as the dead man began to take the shape of a bird.

He laughed as the feathers and beak appeared on the corpse.

He laughed up until the moment that the corpse erupted into fire.

For the love he slaughtered was not vulturous.

The island of fate was set ablaze and all of the fallen idols with all of their fallen ideals were incinerated.

The sky was filled in a radiant light.

The innocent man was not a vulture.

His love had not been a lie. He simply had to shed his darkness.

He woke to find her smiling eyes as she embraced him.

Their love was a Pheonix.

 

Charred and tattered the man in black retreated while the island burned away. He took shelter in a cave and died clutching his own scroll of fate. For he was the vulture and he was the only thing left remaining on the island for himself to devour.

 

Author’s note: Be sure to read the vulture if you wish to further understand the lessons within this narrative.
Best,
N

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The garden of our mind

Today I looked out my window to find that the willow tree I had planted about oh, six months ago, had fallen over and was atop the grass at a deadly 90 degree angle.

My awareness of the situation was followed with a few expletives of surprise and an immediate departure outside to rescue it.

The garden in my backyard is finally taking shape and Willy the Willow is my pride and joy. He’s the first thing that I planted, lasted all winter, and I’ll be damned if the bastard quits on me now simply because he lacks the spinal resilience to go on.

Gently I pulled it upright, grabbed a rope, tied it to the bamboo stick that was bracing it, and drove off to work.

 

In life, we surround ourselves with psychological familiarities that reflect pieces of ourselves. They reflect the underpinnings of our personalities. The hoarder’s house is full of clutter, as is their mind. The preacher’s house is full of religious symbols and paintings. My garden is full of things that can either flourish or wither – things that are beautiful.

I didn’t get a hearty maple tree. I got a weeping willow, a drooping, sad, beautiful bastard of a tree that requires constant support and rescuing while it grows in my windy yard. I love it the most for those reasons.

Constantly I sip on my coffee and look out my window at my tree. When I go into the garden, I look at my tree first.

It is the potential within it in spite of the its current state of weakness that I love to reinforce.

 

Gardening is one of the most rewarding things we can do with life. Why? Because it it requires leaving the things we wish to tend to; it requires the releasing of that which we care for and the faith that they will continue to grow without our observation.

I had a pumpkin seedling that was withered so I put it in new soil, watered it and went to bed. When I got back up and returned from work the next day I found that it was completely fine. It’s stronger than I would have expected. The realization gave me a bit of joy. It surprised me. This surprise is what life is all about.

 

How does the garden of your mind look?

Do you let things go overnight in acceptance? Do you allow that which you have cared for to die so that it might flourish and surprise you?

Often, we tend to forget about the things we plant, the memories that exist, the fallen things of old expectations – but they are still growing even when we drive away from them.

 

Be vigilant in regards to what is growing in your own mind, and never restrain yourself from rescuing beautiful thoughts.

-Noah

The downfall of the romantic: ourselves

A lot of people like to imagine themselves as romantic people – “I bought her flowers last Tuesday and left them for her on the table and a letter…” or, “He took me to a movie and then we walked in the park it was so romantic.”

*sets Facebook profile to himself kissing his girlfriend on the cheek*

*shakes with delight at the likes and hearts*

But what does it mean to be a romantic?

For as long as I can remember I have had a pattern of loving people. First, I would catch a glimpse of them smiling and would be struck by their beauty.

Then, I’d talk with them and would find myself lost in the conversation; able to rest in my wondering just how they could be so very lovely with every word they spoke.

Pretty soon I would find myself thinking about them, writing songs about them or poems, and being tugged steadily onward by the gravity of my desire for them in my life.

If the feeling was mutual and we entered a relationship, this idea of them would manifest itself into projections of the future.

I would live each day in the relationship with them in a kind of tragically deluded but artistically lovely codependent burst of poetry and beauty –  with the projection of perfection onto them. Sometimes this image would last months, sometimes it would only last weeks.

Eventually though, the grand vision would collapse and I’d write another song about heartbreak.

That was pretty much how relationships worked for me as a young romantic man.

The hard fall, the hand-in-hand future sight of us together forever, and finally the collapse of my inflated ideas under the weight of what was actually substantial between us.

In the summer of last year I went over to my brothers to drink a beer and vent about another failed relationship. I told him how difficult it was to carry the visions of that “perfect someone” whom had gotten away with me everyday.

He listened and told me, “That will never stop.” Which was sobering information to say the least.

But why would it not go away? What was I in love with?

“It’s your muse.”

Psychologist Carl Jung described the phenomena as the “Anima” – man’s projection of the feminine archetype within his psyche based off of all of his experiences with women and the perfection he sees in them. It is the thing that lures romantics to their grave; the siren’s call.

For some its the thrill of falling in love and not necessarily the idea of love that they chase.

All of us love that feeling, the thrill of new love – the heart racing moment when everything is on the line because everything is being built and destroyed right then and there between the two of you; the frothy chemistry of love bubbling into your heart.

We love the mystery, the sweetness and beauty of those whom we fall for. It captivates us, it imprints memories into our minds that seem absolutely perfect in nature.

I can remember clearly standing still atop the water fall and looking at my then girlfriend in July’s sunlight so many years ago. The way she smiled is impossible to erase from my mind – listen to my song, “Rest” and you can hear the image manifest itself in the chorus – but why is this?

This is what it means to be a romantic – you are so in love with the archetype of ‘perfect love’ that when it shines forth through anyone’s eyes, when anyone manifests anything beautiful that reminds you of it, it leaves a kind of imprint on your soul.

But, that is not love – it is romance.

Love is also psychological archetype and one that is higher than romance (romance is a part of love but is not love) – and in being so, love supersedes our ability to understand it wholly.

Like romance, we can catch glimpses of it, atop waterfalls, in the hills of Spain or even on the train when our eyes meet a strangers; but it is not ours to have permanently. In fact, it’s impossible to have it permanently.

I fell very hard for a girl once – I thought we shared perfect love. Kissing a new woman after we fell apart was an act of exposure therapy through the PTSD of my collapsed and very dead dreams of her.

But as I look back now at how I felt in our relationship, I can clearly remember that I allowed my own heart to be undermined for that “light” I saw in her – for that romantic pursuit.

This is when things get deadly in relationships; when the idea of what someone is to you romantically supersedes your desire to stand up for yourself. If that happens, you’re doomed to suffer life changing heartbreak or to suffer a lifetime of resentment in being ‘stuck’ in a relationship with them.

Human beings are far from perfect. To demand perfection from them is folly.

Many of us still strive to be valiant lovers despite all of this.

Plenty of myths talk about the hero who slays the beast to win the heart of the perfect woman. In that relationship, I was the hero whom slayed himself only to discover that the woman he had fought to defend was a monster and was then subsequently devoured by her.

A beautiful, soul crushing irony.

Who is to blame? What is to blame?

Ourselves.

Why?

We love romance more than we love ourselves. Or, we love romance more than we love those whom we claim to love.

I once sat by an ex girlfriend and played an instrumental song I had recorded for her on piano. She cried and I was moved by her display of emotion. I convinced myself at that moment that she was emotionally ‘deep’ and mutually artistic. Again, I projected my desires and heart’s expectations onto her at seeing her cry.

I realized after everything ended that her tears were most likely not because she was moved by the beauty of the song – but rather because she too was overwhelmed by her romantic desires all being validated in that moment. It had after all been a lovely date.

So, in an honest sense, it really didn’t matter that it was me sitting next to her playing the song – anyone reflecting her desires would have done the trick. This also, is a sobering and humbling notion.

Our desires absolutely mess with our emotions.

I am always leery when people tell me they love me; especially if I know I haven’t shown the darker parts of my psyche to them.

Love is the understanding of and acceptance of the monster within our partners and them our monster. Likewise, it is also the hand holding and snuggling on a cold winter’s night. But its not all warmth and cozy moments; Hallmark movies be damned.

At some point the poet must look at himself in the mirror and ask, what is my desire? And then, why?

Love itself?

Everlasting romance?

This will never be fulfilled by a single relationship. Not even a healthy relationship and a life lived in a community of like-minded individuals all facilitating one anthers’ success can stifle that longing in our hearts for perfect love.

Romantics then, in some lovely and yet tragic way, are witnesses of beauty itself as an archetype and, unless if we embody humility and allow the beauty of the sun to set and rise naturally, the thing we long for most will devour us.

It’s better to look for the monster in your partner and show them yours, rather than to fall in love with pretense.