A morning’s musings

Okay. Wrote this sitting on the old M15; traveling up Allen Street was like riding a bucking bronco.

Threaded through my thoughts of what I need to do today is the unbreakable cord of longing that attaches my internal being to your existence.

You are probably not holding onto your end of the cord; you are probably unaware of its very existence. Some might think, how pathetic, how sad, all this unrequited passion. I probably would have thought so too, not very long ago.

Not now.

Whether love is returned or not doesn’t matter in the long run. Love exists with or without rewards. It brings pen to paper, melody to instrument, the catch in the voice of the singer that sells the song because of its truth. It never stalks, never imposes itself on the object of its existence; if necessary it can exist forever as a reserve of energy. It creates, nudges, battles and sighs. It caresses and protects and cradles without once clinging or grabbing or forcing.

I cannot ask of you a return on something I cannot help feeling. Having once tried to express some of the enormity of what I feel for you, I have to let go (again and again) of my selfish expactations of what your response should be.

It’s when I forget everything but the cord that it hurts the most. And the cord needs nothing at all from me; it simply is, whether or not I want it or am aware of it or get too busy to care about it.

I am irrevocably changed.