Waves
When I first began, there was no madness, there was no fierce, passionate love as there is now. There was just me. A small boy, lacking in understanding of the world around, the people in it. No conception of love or hate, happiness or sadness. To him, love was something that existed between himself and his family, but he didn't actually understand it. Hate was something he felt for bullies, for anyone who seemed to take enjoyment in upsetting him, he thought it was anger. Happiness and sadness were feelings he had the most basic ideas about: happiness, when things were good; sadness, when things were bad. Like I said, basic, no real conception. He didn't know truly how complex these intangibles really are; how they could be broken down into parts, and how those parts could be broken down into more parts, and then that those parts could be broken down into yet more parts, and so on. No, he was just a small boy, and as small boys go, they don't tend to look deeply into philosophy, in fact, they barely look into philosophy at all. Whether this is for better or worse is not a question that could be easily answered, and perhaps it cannot be answered fully anyway, but this is not what we are here to discuss now. Anyway, I was naive then and blissfully unaware of the chaos of all things, of how there is no real line between what is real and what is unreal, that it is all a matter of interpretation. Probably I was happier then, but there is nothing that can be done about it. Anyway, (I know I already said that, but I can't think of a word better than 'anyway' to use), but anyway, somewhere along the lines, something happened, and I changed, in fact I grew older in so many ways. Ideas, philosophies, theologies, beliefs, and all other concepts have become important to me, more that just matters of interest, they have become matters that I have held close to my heart. I have become sentimental, romantic even. Passionate at times. I have developed the understanding in only a few years that for most people it can take most of their lives to find. I have become a poet, a writer. Each word, each sentence, each paragraph or stanza or letter I write is a life born of my own, a part, split from my own part, my lifeblood put to paper. Everything I write tells the reader something about me, even, no especially this. My words take on a life of their own; they are filled with power so potent, so emotional that if I wished it, they could rip one's very soul to shreds, send them into an abyss of madness, filled with blind rage, or unrelenting anguish, or the most furious fiery passion anyone or anything could know. Some have been sent into tears by my words, others into anger, and some even into joy. They can be used both for self-exploration or for manipulation, depending on myself, the reader, and what lies in-between. Positive results are hard, (or is that unlikely?) to achieve.
Whilst I was in the early stages of this development process I have just described, I met you. 'Met' is a debatable term to use, I suppose, and what happened is more complex, more spiritual, and in ways I cannot explain or completely understand, it was deeper than that. But you know this, so why am I bothering to say this? What I am writing here isn't an account, or an explanation for me, or for you. It is a window to our world, our dream, our love, through which others can see us, perhaps understand us just a little if we are lucky, but otherwise, so they are truly given the chance to know what we are.
The image of you, as it often is, is vague in my memory of when we first met, in that dream, some days I see you more clearly, others not at all, but you know better than to hold that against me. Yes, there was so much said between us that night, without any actual communication of words. The steady gaze we held was all there was on a first glance of it, but there was so much more. Do you understand? Of course you do, my love, but does the viewer, who I imagine now sitting, looking through this window we have created for them. I say 'we' because it is you that fuels my words. I wonder how they feel reading this. Whether for them it is like voyeurism. Or if they think they are a tourist? I like to think that they feel they are a dreamer witnessing someone else's dream. You know, only one person I know understands this love between us. She said 'it is light. It is the purest love.' She was right, and I wonder if she realizes it. There is another person who has seen this place, who has been here herself, this 'fantasy island' as she likes to put it. I wonder, (which I seem to do a lot of), if ever she will ever truly have any understanding of where she has been?
As I have done for so long, I ask 'What are you?', 'Who are you?', 'Are you real?', and I always get the same answers from you:
'Ask yourself what you are, and then you will know, for we are the same. Not the same person, the same species, of the same world.'
'Your love.'
'Yes.'
And then I ask you why we are this way, so far apart? You say: 'Your answers will come. And then things will change.'
And how I wish they would. What wouldn't I give to be with you forever, wherever it may be. If not in this world, then the next, or the one that follows that, or anywhere, so long as it is with you. I often wonder if you are dead, an angel or spirit maybe? A dream. If so, then I cannot belong here, for I too must be a part of this dream for us to be this way. I once said, that maybe dreams are real, maybe this is unreality, and that maybe we shouldn't awaken from our dreams into here, but we should awaken into our dreams. Perhaps I was right. One of these days I will find out, and then I will be happy, as will you. But that is later, and this is now.
When I am alone, and I have no-one else, I think of you. You are always there for me, when I need you, or when I don't. You never burden me, you never appear at an awkward time. There is an air about you that calms and soothes me. You even make me laugh at times. You have a smile that is seductive, yet sincere, and playful (like the look in your eyes), and there is something else about it that I cannot quite place. Perhaps it will come to me later. Your eyes cavern deep inside your soul, and yet they also penetrate through my own eyes, to my own soul. It is like they form a conduit between us. Perhaps the first time we met, many lives, many eternities ago, our eyes met and created this connection between us, and when we parted physically, the connection was left intact, and so we have never parted really. And so there is a part of my soul in yours, and a part of your soul in mine, and they have been together for so long that they have become inextricably intertwined, and this is why we meet without physically meeting. I can't help but smile at this. You will, (the reader, that is), perhaps have difficulty grasping the concept I have laid before you. But in it's simplest terms, Deep Blue and I: We are. I can see that this confuses you still more, so for now I will move on, and perhaps something I later say will make you understand.
I miss you, Deep Blue. I long for the times when I saw you so often, and we used to play, and laugh, and smile at each other. I long for the times our hearts would sing a soft, but often fierce duet together, when we were two, but we were together. When our lives were lead for our love. When we would share passion and words so soft and gentle. When we were together physically, mentally, on every plane, every dimension, when we were all that was. How I long for us to be the wind and the rain, the sun and the moon, the stars and the earth, and life and death. When we were everything and we were nothing, when you and I and love was all we knew, all we cared about. I long for the times we used to sit on that old hill and watch the sun rise, and set, and the stars appear and rain down upon us, and disintegrate from existence as the sun rose again. And now, my soul, the body it inhabits and my dreams, and these words are all that is left of this love we once knew. What happened?
...My soul sighs, like a distant breeze on a hazy summer afternoon. It is an answer, replying in an almost echo-like form. But I can't make it out. My heart strains to hear it again...
..."This."
We let the world, the universe, existence as you know it enter ourselves. We felt the wind, the rain, the cold. We saw the poverty, the misery, the sin. We knew the ill, the death, the dead. We parted, realizing the atrocities we had been ignorant of. We knew we could no longer be together until we felt we had been in the world for long enough. Not to say that we won't be together until we are dead... I don't know.
I suppose now reader, that you feel you are thoroughly confused. 'We are and we aren't.' The summary so far. And yet it confuses you more. Stay with me. There is more.
Whenever I see you, I always hear the sound of the waves crashing softly upon a shore, or the sound of waves roaring powerfully out at sea. These sounds are the notes, the bars, the words, the stanzas that make up our song. They tell of our life together, how we have loved together, and when we stop, how we have parted. But they come again, and so we will be together again. When the waves thunder, I am reminded of those fiercely passionate nights we share, and when the waves gently sigh, I am reminded of the softness of the caress of your lips against mine, your hand in mine. The roaring reminds me also of the strength of our love, that it cannot be broken, just as the whispers remind me of how true our love is, that it is of the highest value. I need these reminders, because often, the knowledge of so many terrible things in this world distract me. Such is the extent of the horrors here, that our love is no longer clear to me. I can feel it, I know it is there, but the path is gone. The road has gone untraversed for so long that it has faded from plain view. But when I find you, we shall rebuild that road, give our love back its life in all of its magnificence, in all of its beauty. We will be again.
Looking back to summarise again, I realise I have missed a point "We have been." Now it becomes,
"We are and we are not. We have been. We will be again. This is the story the waves tell." A word of warning here: the summary might not necessarily follow the same trend as the words I write.
With you, these days I have trouble finding something I can grasp, something that is there, right in front of me. I used to see everything with such clarity, but now it seems to be fading into a dream, as history may turn to myth. "What is real?", I find myself asking, but I haven't any definite answers. Not any more. I find often that my dreams, not necessarily ones about you, feel very real - the textures, the sounds, smells, the way I perceive things seems a lot more real than in real life, the here and now. There are times in real life where everything just washes over me, leaving me barely standing, disorientated and overwhelmed by the moment. I sway for a while, take a deep breath and then reality snaps back into place.But my dreams... How they haunt me ever afterward. Why is it that all too often I can still feel your kiss on my lips long after I have awaken? I'm beginning to question which is real - my dreams, or what I consider to be reality. I know this is dangerous, I don't know where I'm headed - insanity? Maybe so. Perhaps I'd feel better off to let the dreams take over, but I would be sacrificing everything just for a glimpse of our love. No, I must hold on, just so I can find you, and then we can embrace and let fate decide whether we roll into our dream together or make a life for ourselves together. Together. Whatever happens, it happens with us together, at least after we are...
There are times when I wonder if I made you up, if you really are something I just made from a dream. Sounds a shameful thing to admit, that I doubt my heart, but you know it is fair for me to do so. I mean, all I have received in life is misery. Death, pain, disappointment resentment... But I always find there is something that gives me hope. It maybe the way someone smiles at me, or something someone says, but whatever it is, it always comes at both the last possible moment, and the least likely of moments. One instance springs to mind, but no, that is not for me to discuss with you. That is between me and... someone else. We'll leave that there. But yes, hope always comes when there seems to be none. You may wonder, "how much hope?", and I say, "not much, but enough".
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