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We lived

We run across the bridge, rain pouring, horns blaring from frustrated drivers stuck in traffic.

We were young, full of love, full of hope, in total trust of each other, nothing could dim the heady space we occupied, we were one. Our love was simple, easy, true. We were young.

And so we ran, laughing at the angry drivers, daring into the road, running faster, our hands interlocked, our feet wet, our clothes caught in the wind. . . Our happiness complete.

We crossed the bridge and headed towards the less crowded alley still running, still laughing. . . soaking wet. I was your love and you were my sunshine, your laugh was my hope, your eyes my dreams, we were alive, we could do anything, we could do it all.

We turned the corner and headed towards the beach, hearts palpitating. It felt dangerous and dreamy at the same time. Escaping into the sunset to see the ocean at night. The wind was howling, lifting my white dress up in a halo at my thighs.

Sunset painting by Leeza Beth; Saatchi art downloaded from google images.

You held on to my hand tighter, determined to bring a silly idea I had voiced earlier in class to life. We moved forward, I finally saw the white sand, and joy swirled inside me like a heady light of gold and silver, I was so happy, you turned my fantasy into a reality.

I stop and look up, hold your face in my hands, excited.
I can see the ship! not sure if it’s still moving towards the port or not. It looks unmoving, a giant hulk of red and rusty brown, that is all I can make out in the fading sunset light.

You tilt your forehead closer, touch mine with yours and smile into my face, I shyly smile back, then pull your hand forward, towards the water. We now don’t need to run, the wind picked up the rain clouds and glided away with them, away from us and the beach.

Image downloaded from google subject to copyright

You lay down the shawl you had carried on the sand, now soaking wet, I laugh at the irony of keeping warm in wet garments, you laugh back and pull me down onto your lap. I cuddle into you, taking in your warm gentle breath and now warming embrace. I plant my cheek on your wet shirt and smile. . . I am safe.

The wind is howling, the beach is almost empty and at the cusp of the shoreline, the waves are rolling in. I sit still and breathe, nestling further into your chest, my thoughts finally calming down. All the angst that hang about me all week is melting away, my joy stabilizing. . . I feel safe.

We were young . . . and now we are older, the peace that you emit has matured, you are firmer and I am less dependent. We still hold hands tightly, our roots have grown deeper, our love older, matured and still warm, still full of life. Your passion is more contained and I am less reckless. We both radiate a quiet joy in the silence of the evening, only the precious sounds of the wind and the waves surround us.

We have lived and continue to live, though today we are clothed in heavy warm jackets, shielded from the wind, we have to be practical. 😊 Yet your embrace is still my warmest and most safest place. My love, we lived and even in our sunset we continue to live. . .

Image downloaded from google images

love,

Ruth.

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LOVE THROUGH MY GLASSES

Image downloaded from google images.

In the end I am alone, alone, the isolation has sunk into my bones. I have fought with shadows, with dark shapeless ominous shadows. Creatures I believe mean me evil, creatures that chase away the light I fight so hard to hold on to. Shadows in my mind, shadows that are vanquished by light every day, every morning, but I have to do my part, I must summon light, for only light dispels the darkness.
I capture the light, hold on to it tightly, refuse to let go. When I finally think I have a good grip on it, I realize I’m sinking, and worse, is the isolation, is that they all left.
The silence is an internal wound, the rejection a grey memory, awful, but welcome. At least I know their hearts, they were always going to leave, no matter what. I would be left alone no matter what so rather this isolated reality than living in an artificial haze of conditional love.
Affection that needs to be feed, when my spirit is spent, and I have nothing left to give, they go. Laughing at my imperfections, determined to justify leaving, rejoicing in the flaws that they saw, the flaws that they now parade like a shield, to justify leaving.
Love is love, it is a privilege, an opportunity to look into someone else’s heart and mind, an opportunity to share, to build and be built.
Takers cannot understand love. Their love is conditional, a trade off, a barter of sorts. I am tired, is not business, trade and study a trade? Why transfer conditions into so sacred a space, why corrupt love with callousness?
All around me people are talking about money, wondering whether I have it or not, those that think I have it dive in. Those that know I have little scatter. . .I am so tired. My own understanding of value is challenged by the worldly isolation.
I have spent so long looking for my love I am tired, I never find him or her, even when I think I finally know him, he only loves the woman he thinks I am, it feels like deception, existing in this fetish love of sorts, a love that will change my hair, hide my voice, silence my spirit. A love that will constrict me into my lover’s preferred box. I can’t, I won’t let myself conform, constrict, be bound, so I leave.
When I meet another love, I find that he is manipulative at his worst, a maverick at his best, he is addictive and still wrong, for him I would drown, but he exerts a high price, that I abandon my belief, my foundation, my hope. . . again I leave. . .this time leaving a piece of myself on him, I cry, I mourn, I obsess, yet I am resolved to not look back, to grow stronger and to stop those ever leaking tears.
I wish we chose vulnerability rather than tricks, vulnerability over a wall of negative speculation, vulnerability over winning, vulnerability over isolation. I understand though, that sometimes it’s ignorance, sometimes lust, sometimes selfishness, sometimes desperation, sometimes ambition, sometimes escapism. . . it’s not always love.

Image downloaded from google images, painter’s name signed on the picture.
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THE SEEING LADY JUSTICE

Image downloaded from google images

She is tall, taller than any human, even the tallest of them all. She took off her cloth blinders, and her gaze is brilliant. She possesses a multicolored Iris, sometimes a hot, molten gold sometimes azure sometimes a clear grey and predominantly a stormy black. She is dignified and graceful, her long gown formless and wide at the bottom, covering her legs. She always looks like she is floating through the air. On one of her hands she bears the heavy burden of her precious scales.

She stands watching the masses, looking at them with her tireless, sharp, frustrated eyes, trying to un tangle the horrid mess that can be the existence of man. Man has been overrun by his nature, she does not understand the hopeless desperation that she sees, the confusion, isolation, apathy and greed. The strong build their towers, sheltering themselves and keeping out the weak, yet even in their towers the struggle continues, the fight unending. Ripping each other apart in their struggle for that elusive dominance.

She does not understand it, that vicious struggle, she only sees how fragile their existence is, how hollow they make it, fighting for recognition when what they really hunger for is identity, longevity and control. She does not understand their determination to break each other just to be on top. On top of what? Brokenness and pain. She does not understand this myopic escapism. A people tooled and gifted with the capacity to build and add value, yet they focus on destruction through envy and exclusivity. She does not understand the paradox of a people that crave community, thrive in community, yet can be so prejudiced and hostile to one another.

The paradoxes of man’s actions and inner desires always plague her. Man craves peace, yet he creates implements of war, desires love but is hostile towards vulnerability, wants security yet he destroys the fundamentals of community with pride and selfishness.  

With her piercing sometimes cruel gaze, she peers at the man, a medusa of sorts, with the hunger to turn the unjust to stone, yet they never catch her gaze, they stay wary of her. She leans in and stares into the very heart of a man, discerning the depths of his soul, she frowns, shakes her head and adds a number to his file which she then stores within her voluminous gown, awaiting action by her human agents, not perfect!

She holds up her long pure white gown, it is sometimes black, a deep, matchless black, elegant and uncompromisingly pure. She NEVER does creams, or greys, or browns. There is no in between for her.

She continues gliding into the masses, looking into their eyes, her frustration at her un attended files and ever growing list of the unjust, un pure and corrupt growing ever deeper, she continues to look though, compelled by her very own nature to not stop. Her frustration reaches fever pitch, she starts to shriek not perfect! not perfect! not perfect! At her un seeing and deaf audience. They cannot see or hear her, and for some, even if they had the ability to access the vision to see her, they would prefer their known blindness.

What is wrong with the human race, they exhibit a blindness like she has not seen, a people easily seduced by broken, innate, temporary vessels. A people taken in by their pleasures. She fears for them, fears that they will not stand when they are finally overrun by the forces beyond the door. Even the ones that can see are too cowardly to act, preferring their escapist broken bubbles of safety, completely out of touch with the reality at hand.

She is angry now, those are her only two feelings, anger and frustration. The third. . . satisfaction, has long been forgotten. Dissatisfaction has a death grip on her. She pulls at her scales, gliding between the masses openly unhinged by the despair of those she cannot help, frustrated at her own incapacity to touch the realm of men.

Her own nature starts to feel tedious to her, why does she even bother any more, why not retreat to her high tower of justice, passing judgement from a distance. This proximity to the masses only amplifies her feelings of impotence, seeing, knowing, judging, yet still having to rely on her broken human servants, men and women who are no longer erudite, clear vessels but willingly impugned creatures, creatures that sell her mercy for a price.

She watches them sell away on earth, on her high tower the bonds of justice are severely eroded. The door of life is almost unhinged, held together by the kind, righteous, bold and outspoken. She watches them like a helicopter parent, appreciating the practical and loving the stubborn. She desperately tries to shield them from corruption, holding hope that their depleted ranks will be filled. For now, they are few, yet their task is heavy. The almost open door heightens her fear, leading her to keep on coming back to the land of men, to keep on trying to enforce justice even through her hopeless agents.

She knows what lies beyond the door, and fears that the realm of men will not survive an assault from such darkness. A darkness that will amplify their weaknesses and destroy them from within. So she continues her daily journeys among men, all while dragging her precious, ever heavier scales behind her.