Who hasn’t a bagful of assorted regrets stashed somewhere in the unrevealed recesses of memories?
What kind of mortal does not wish to do things differently looking back and finding his life’s band are collected beads of beautiful downfalls with random bruises strung together?
What kind of soul isn’t shadowed with wistfulness remembering the pains of gaining wisdom, the tortures of living and the pure raptures of being in the momentary embrace of fleeting love?
What kind of wanderer doesn’t wish to retreat into familiar comforts of arms snaking around a torso to calm the storms of juvenile vagrancies? Of finding peace? Of waking up to soft breathing of another heart to dampen the malicious rage of even the bleakest day?
What kind of spirit wouldn’t brave the rivers, crossing prairies, distance and time to be one with the universe in the greatest hopefulness of tilting a head, sleeping on a chest and hear your name whispered by the slow rhythms of a throbbing heart?
What kind of earthly breathing thing wouldn’t bargain with God for hours, minutes and seconds to once more touch that impalpable fire that consumes constellations into tears as they glide the metrical ballets of alternating days and nights?
We are all drifters. Some of us are fortunate to have found someone to share moments in the unpredictable rising and falling of ages. Some are declined of that ever-smoldering flame. Yet, we move on with the journey. We forgive ourselves for our failings and learn not to impose on accounting for all the hurt bestowed by surly earthlings upon us. We bring unto our graves the darkness of secret whispers, the exultations of delicate laughters.
We cross the threshold of a lifetime, ignorant of the elusive truths and laws of living and loving. We make use of what little wisdom and epiphanies we harvested along the way and for some privileged ones, being bestowed with happiness by benevolent souls who touched their lives. These souls make life bearable. They make dreary days tolerable, ordinary days wonderful, and remarkable days a silent celebration perfumed with gratefulness and quiet raptures.
Because they happen within, and oftentimes they are indescribable: The mystic of love and life, such as they are. And we are enthralled, enraptured, lost.
We all drift from one love to another heartache. We become wise, if not wiser, or hit the pavements crashing headfirst. Yet we continue in our aimless wanderings. We are tenacious beings, resolute to prefer life, to desire wisdom and to embrace passion.
Regrets are inescapable and inevitable. So is life.
The trick is to keep breathing, living, and if opportunity presents itself, approach it with unqualified abandon and embrace the elations of loving.
Only then can you genuinely gauge if you have traveled the distance, mapping trails and trajectories in the infinite landscape of never ending time.
05.11 – I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Cheers to another year of insanity.
Distant Dreamer — Duffy