Inspiration 7.0
 

Or however many point oh. I came across a fantastic line in a book I'm reading that has been inspiring me in many of the things I write. I thought it would be fun to use it as the start of another "inspiration" thread. Here's the topic:

Can one ever feel love as deeply as one feels loss?

I'll post my submission sometime in the next twenty four hours, hopefully. Have at it!

Nice! I'll be back later...

yeah, Im in.

Hmm, that one's feeling a little too close to me at the moment, as I've been thinking a lot of that topic. I fear, as a result, I could be too autobiographical. I'll have to see if anything gels up over the next day or so.

I thought the same, but I also think it could give the best perspective by far. I have to say, unless youve lived it, you may not have a clear vision of it. my answer would surely only come from an autobio standpoint as well. its the only perspective I have to such a question.

Im also thinking the thought process could be very theraputic. Im hoping so.

just a pirates two shineys

CJ

Yeah, I'm with CJ - everything we write about comes from experience and from our own POV. So, I think, IMHO, that everything we create is, in a way, autobiographical.

Better late than never, right?
 

When I felt love, I didn't need to send you an email telling you to leave me alone already, and then leash up the dog at one in the morning.

When I felt love I didn't need to step onto the two mile dirt path that winds past the playground and the sleeping ducks with the ipod blasting loud to cover the static of thought.

When I felt love I didn't look at the full circle moon and wonder if eternity could possibly be as grueling as Presence.

When I felt love I didn't have to stand still and watch you self-destruct in a ritual way, me unwilling to throw a stick in your spin.

When I felt love I didn't reach the end of the path and think that maybe if I kept on walking until the dogs' toenails were nubs and my converse were tatters of cloth and rubber, that I'd be whole again, and I could return home another person.

When I felt love I didn't stare at the darkness on the edge of the path and then turn around, knowing that I'd turn the front knob as the same person I was yesterday and will be in the morning.

When I felt love I didn't wonder if one can ever feel love as sharply as one feels loss.

Very nice! I had a couple false starts with this one. Hopefully I'll get something going soon.

Monsters
 

I do not have a name. None of us do. We are born the moment you think we are there and are frightened of us. For a small span of time you will think of little else besides us after you are tucked in and the lights go off. You will hear an unexpected creak, scratch or hum and know with certainty that I am there.

And so I am, thanks to you.

I mean you no harm. None of us have ill intentions. We are born from belief and soon you will forget all about us, but for now I wait for quiet words to fill my empty spaces. It begins with, “I know you’re there.”

I am. Hello. Your words make me happy.

“I can hear you breathing.”

Your imagination.

“You can’t hurt me.”

I would never occur to me to try. Keep talking. Your address is all that I can ever know. Your voice squeaks out a raspy trill which fills me with joy. To be known is to be loved.

Music is when you cry out for your mother. So long as you think I am there I belong to you. I am beholden. Your startled breaths, you sniffling nose, that fear sweat smell that muffles your milk scented skin. These mortal aspects of you are what weave my existence. Once you will be brave enough to send your head over the edge of the bed. I will hear you slink down, down, down until I can sense you there. When you look into the dark the dark looks back. I feel every atom of you. It is love, it is love, it is love.

“Please leave me alone.”

That is not how it works. We don’t leave. We are left. Maybe you will grow up. Maybe your breath stops tomorrow. I cannot know when it will happen but I do know someday you will die.

Not so with us. Once here we are always here. Entirely yours, like I said: beholden. When you figure out that the creak was your sister’s foot on the attic stair and the scratch just a tree branch irritating the window, when you understand that the hum is nothing more than an audible power line on your street you will master your fear and render me insensate. In deafness I will wait for the sound of your voice. I will forever feel its loss.

We pay our debts with remembrance.

That totally rocked! :snap: