The following disquisition is best read while listening to a playlist consisting of sensually thematic tunes, preferably with a hint of oriental eroticism…if you cannot find anything with those flavors, anything by Enya will do. Trust me, the right music can make even the most lackluster of stimulation seem like a self-guided tour of Elizabeth Taylor’s formative years. A bottle or two of wine can’t hurt either 😉
There are some things better left unsaid, some dreams unrealized, some people untouched and unkissed. And every “once upon a setting sun”, a question deserves to remain unanswered, as if the very mystery itself were a romantical panty-peeler. But in the sporadically-profound words of the quasi-overrated Ernest Hemingway:
“……the sun also rises.”
When was the last time you woke up on any given morning, opened your eyes and through the soaking sunrise realized you were simply a figment simpatico with that of some grand universal scheme set into motion by a nameless dreamer searching for the one true definition of “love”? Absolution may be a rite of passage, but there is no certainty if there’s simply an inkling of an attraction based on curiosity, lust, and the unknown…otherwise known as the ugly stepsister of “Love”; I’ve found that it’s not only essential to know the difference, but it is imperative to have dipped neck-deep into both with the threat of a drowning death draped across one’s shoulders.
A kiss, widely seen as little more than a momentary pact made between lovers, is sometimes further short-sighted by the more materially-bound individual. Because a kiss does not always have to connect two pairs of lips, quivering and fate-bound as they may seem. No, a kiss, as gentle as a snowflake touching down after a long, knuckle-cracking descent, is quite possibly the beginning of love. Of course, if one is to understand the concept of love, the wise wanderer would dare not ignite one’s self with the incinerating burden of limitations. In the same manner as children have no knowledge of time, love has no relationship with limitation.
I’ve kissed many a woman, felt the warmth of pursed-lips innumerable. I’ve looked into the eyes of both the innocent and the damned, of the tired and the damaged. I’ve cradled the hands of those who might for all I’ve been convinced to believe, have no need for something as deep and fathomless an abyss as “love” or even, dare I say, forgiveness. These hands…things fingers…these lips; they’re merely tools to conceptualize and massage and form and carve out the makings of a perfect night lost in the embrace of the opposite sex. From an inlooker’s point of view, there may be a considerable amount of judgment to be inflicted against my cause; however, even I know physical pleasures are scalded by limitations when “Love” is on the horizon. Love is a journey, my dear friend; love is tragic and romantic, enlightening and frantic…and it does not come without trial and error, the occasional travesty, and sacrifice. And from what I’ve discovered through my own personal hiraeth, is that the eyes may be the windows to her all-but derelict soul, but the lips are the stronghold imprisoning that which aspires to be her heart; a kiss may very well free even the deepest surrenderer from that asylum which they’ve given birth to themselves.
In the face of all this, I do not mean to impose that a kiss itself is a symbol of love, but perhaps the scent of something more…the wind cascading between open mouths when coupled with two pairs of ocular chrysanthemums, a reminder that time does not govern the townships of the soul or for that matter, the loins; mayhaps that is a worthy representation of that crippling bridge. However, as aforementioned, love is a journey, more importantly a one-way journey; there will always be one more drop of blood to shed. With every morning I’ve been lucky enough to abhor, I can only hope for more to learn, even if the torrential winds responsible for Love be coexistent alongside currents of heartbreak; after all, there is a purpose for everything, and Time is merely a crutch.
And so, in the words of my most recent therapist, whose whereabouts remain unknown:
“…love is not a privilege, but an inheritance.”