Do you hear the sadness that lingers even in the most lighthearted of voices? A desperate longing that never ceases to evade my grasp is seemingly my most faithful companion. A blissful moment slips away, the record ends; even intoxication reaches a dreary limit. Glimpses of brilliance leave me ever wanting; I feel unable to drink even a simple cup of coffee without anticipating the coming void. How do I fill it? How do I dwell in every crevice of each cherished moment? As while counting the coins in the bottom of my bag for a parking ticket, I’m overcome by mundane dread. Scarcity and continuity intertwine.
The finest get lost in overtime and lack of time. Their brilliance fades every time we meet and I can’t seem to conjure up what had so ignited my passion. Stories wear thin without bodies to wear them. Their voices speak to the sadness I carry. There is a vague, sweet acknowledgement of the desperation we bury in a desk drawer or douse in wine. We let it slip away in front of the television. Petty disputes let us forget how great love once loomed.
The infinite lives, from which we must choose but one, haunt our holidays and health struggles. I find an empty journal, like the empty canvas, terrifying. What is it I must do that I haven’t? What is it I’m to feel or create? How do I fill the void of my own existence? How can I love enough? How can I assemble something essential, spread it as far as the mind can reach and yet preserve its immediate brilliance? Where do I stash the despair of my squandered attempts?
It’s not the losses. It’s knowing how to start over with the burden of so much lost time, the beloved enemy.
Opening the heart to a kind of elusive certainty seems so frightening and yet remains the one and only task.
What do we do with our grandeur?