Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky. We fell them down and turn them into paper that we may record our emptiness.
— Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), Lebanese-born U.S. mystic, painter, and poet. Sand and Foam.
I feel empty. Not the vast emptiness of the deepest abyss. More of the silent landscape of the arching dunes.
Dunes. Thus comes the complexity of spannungsbogen. The self-imposed delay between when one begins to desire something and when one attempts to achieve or acquire it.
Am I always the patient one? Acquiring worldly material with every wrought of blood, toil, tears and sweat. Praying of heaven forgiveness for every virtue withered in the solitude of the night with this fragile faith. The courtship that gone awry in the tide of time. Ethereal affection that’s nought of immortality.
What do one seek from a soul mate? Matrimonial commune? Sensual gratification? Mutual camaraderie? Shared vision? Psychological support?
If what I sought is mere discourse as a way to break the recourse of being reticence. Would she partakes with mutual ascension of sympathy or falls down to concession of apathy?
Am I under the notion of overwhelming expectation from her? That delayed response is her unforgiving retaliation against my intrusion into her wall of contentment.
Is it a waste of poetic breathe for every prose and verse gusting into that small gap of her wall. As the voice rang hollow between the opportunity. A nuisance more than something that used to evoke “her soul to heaven.”
I didn’t seek more than I can sought.
The act of futility is enough to plough through the end of servile intimacy.
Perhaps it become too monotonous with all the attention, that there’s no more gratification from physical rendezvous (tiring and tedious), a simple messaging (succinct word come with a terse reply) and verbal banter (muffled and distracted).
Provocation rises doubt, but I’ll always the one end up being pigeonholed as <insert narcissistic adjective here>.
If I’m bored of you, why do I feel the opposite?