rekindle that flame

it’s been so long since I last fancied anyone. the small, inventive exchanging of pleasantries, the shy smiles. long ago were the times where I could easily turn around and just – even if for only a few minutes in an elevator, in the bus, passing by – fall in love with a person. it’s not that I am lonely; lonesome I am, maybe, a little. but the years went by and I changed. no longer am I able to jump from the cliff into the abyss unknown, jumping the shark, in a youthful leap of faith. it’s unsafe now, and my brain says no to the abundance of my heart. I am scared. I am stuck. no longer can I allow myself to just feel: no restraints, no judgements, only desire – a desire derived from the simple touching of tongues, scraping of teeth or a stolen glance.

much have I aged. much have been the doings and un-doings of my heart and my soul. “a man that is not afraid of emotion” – an old motto, an old life. John Fante is a memory from a fearless, wild child from back in the day that, today, I would not be able to recognize. I now feel the constant necessity of scrutinizing desire to all its last, lowermost details. I have lost the ability to love recklessly, un-scared and un-scarred.

some people call it maturity, I call it old age. an age when I find myself in when I haven’t lived enough but have lived enough. the age when I think I have been through so little and yet so much – when I believe that all waters have passed and that I have a stone heart and a body that is fit for everything, but in the end realize that after so many sticks and stones my fibber is now worn out. I am weary and wary.

a weariness brought by a fear that I am, sometimes, not even aware of. it is a fear that consumes, the fear to be rejected, the inability to fit in, the fear of not understanding social conventions – of trying and failing and, therefore, being alone for the rest of life. so I no longer even try.

I miss the times where I could just let go, even if it was to lose everything. attempt. fail. start again. I miss the time where I only searched for the tranquility of sleeping with unlocked doors in a small house in a small town, for the looks of love, for lovers’ embraces, for people to talk to, for cooking dinners, holding hands and saturday mornings.

I miss the times where the sky was just a dark blue fabric holding those bright stitches that, to my old folks, were called stars, but to me were called promises and hopes and dreams. I miss the tranquillity of sleep, the sensation of my first cigarette. I miss the times when I was a young one and held everything at the same time in my hands and could be anything I wanted.

I miss the time when I was (a bad) poet and everyone else, fools.


One Response to “rekindle that flame”

  1. xasika Says:

    You’re still a (bad) poet. Where do I sign?


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