Wants to be "..." But is "..."

If only my pleasures weren't tainted now by the sting of a love that seemingly can never be. Pity I don't deal in absolutes. What a wonder we can still go on feeling so hacked up and heartily dishevelled. Mend the torn shards of my heart together oh Great Spirit! Swoop down upon me and gather this quivering vessel into your body of power! Make me whole again, though I can't recall having ever been but when paralyzed in the motion of love. I long for paralysis in bliss and a return to something I cannot conceive of, but aim arrows at in my every daydream. Arrows that go straight through the target and come into my reality like daggers who've fashioned worn bedding in my heart and tuck themselves here as though once welcomed, as though cordially received. Oh world! How you ebb at my every fear from all sides, while beckoning gingerly that I come a step closer towards life, though it falls upon my chest like a great heap; a blinding curtain before the blinding light of blissful paralysis, of completion, of love, of truth, of God(ess).

What I meant to say was that this glorious weekend is now overcast by the tarp of my thickening heartache. What I intended for this piece was a retelling of the joyous exploration and inclusion of three small lives under the leafy arms and Eastern sky over our adventures in Boston. But the story has changed over night, such is the case as its fickle and most whimsical author has yet again allowed her indomitable, steadfast dedication to direct her life by a passion bound within a skim, translucent skin of professionalism to have wrought the leveling clarity of reality upon her intoxicating hallucination. Therefore, as I would be remiss to dismiss the retelling of such a bountiful occasion, I shall do so with regrettable commitment to my current sight, for though it may be un-exotic, this truth is the best I have to offer and I see no sense in providing less.

I prepared for the trip by scraping what little monetary excess I pretend to posses and building a slight wardrobe in the breezy, mariner style; cream, coral, and peach hues in simple, classic cuts. I read no literature about this state; it seemed unnecessary when I could draw upon the many remembrances of Bostonian culture implanted in me by my fondest former love, a former Bostonian. My grandest effort for preparation was simply to enjoy the budding anticipation swelling within my being that was to make room for the intended bliss and vignettes of the cultural variety surely to be ushered in by this new adventure.

Alas! There was much joy. Even in the wake of swine flu I enjoyed, as always, the bizarre and horrifying thrill of passing over so much earth and human life in so little time while being completely unaffected by and ineffective upon the ins and outs of so many tiny--inwardly gargantuan--lives breathing their people thoughts and this human heart beating its person beats. I landed and made my way by bus to my lovely friend.
At this time I would like to include an excerpt from my Mead Composition Journal:
"Silver Line Bus. 2$. South Station. A mentally disabled woman who appeared to be normal by her physical attire and expression began striking up conversations on the silver line bus. To see such gentile innocence, candor and kindness in an aging body moved me to tears with the natural rhythm and sincerity of life that causes a bud to flow into its blossoming. So pure as to appear like a dance inspired by the hand of the God of awesomeness.
I wish I had better words to capture how this woman-child moved me. But the experience itself practically drained my heart of all energy.
However beautiful this moment is, I cannot help but realize how dangerous, troublesome this creature's lack of insight may become in a panic situation.
Two women, a grandmother and her daughter, come on to the bus with their small girl and boy. I gave them my seat. And the simple creature began asking for the kid's names and initiating conversations. Yet, with her incessant warmth and helpfulness she's managed to woo the grandmother with her spell of s-"

Unfortunately I stopped writing at that s, so I can't tell you, dear reader, what she possessed that I'd never witnessed expressed so organically and fully before--sweetness perhaps. What I can offer is that she chanced to ride the same subway car with us once I was received by my lovely friend. She even chanced to sit beside us and strike up a conversation, wherein we both revealed that in the past we had been prone to stealing clothing from Goodwill. I imagine some of the eavesdropping passengers had some inner-response over witnessing a retarded woman and a fashionable urbanite exchange tales of their former lives wherein theft from a Goodwill presented itself as a viable option.

All the more I will say is that this experience as a witness to this creature I was reminded of the vastness of this world and of its possibilities and abilities to send icepicks through the daggers clutched within our hearts. How a moment can be the spiritual wrecking ball whose wake constitutes a trail of technicolor flower heads and the passport to oblivion for any choice wound. This is how our scars heal: By the sight of human tenderness.

To be continued...