The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd - The longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
Fernando Pessoa
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Nostalgia is for the past. Dreaming is for the future. So... I dream. What is a dream? A yearning for a lost connection? If so, I dream all the time. The stones encircled me. I stand at their centre. Turning. Turning.
I went to The Ivy Tree. Again. And cried. Touching the bark. I didn't recognise my hands. I don't know whose they were. Certainly not mine. Mine were beautiful. Once. I despair at the effort required.
There is a girl who works in a small textile studio, not far away. Not too far away. Alone. I have seen her a few times through her window to the street. Most of it is covered in posters. She is working away inside today. Making pretty patterns. Alone. On her long wooden table. I smile inwardly. She doesn't see me. Ever.
I look at her small hands, working away at a weave she has made. Turning it over proudly. She looks down, always. I don't need anyone, she says to herself. No-one. If she ever looked up, she'd see my face and turn away. That's why I stay invisible. Must stay invisible.
Kindly. Gentle. Quiet. Silent. Always. Working away. Her hands moving deliberately, then... suddenly... not moving at all. As if, frozen. Because she has just felt my presence. But never dare she look up. I have to move away to break her sense. But I don't. I just stay there. My heart beating slowly and regularly. Breathing slowly into my nostrils the cold air outside the window. It's warm inside where she is. She looks calm.
Wrapped up with a quilted, colourful, woollen scarf wrapped around her pretty neck. Hiding her neck although she knows now it's not hidden to me at all. No, nothing is hidden to me. I see her beauty, her warmth, her shoulders, her pointed breasts moving under the woollen jumper.
So, in impasse, we stay. Her, not moving. Me, not moving. Both of us, feeling everything about the other. The intensity. The fluttery shaking inside. The smile of resignation. Of silly knowledge. If I turn my back on her, she'll turn her back on me, and we'll climax on our backs. Against the other. But we don't. We face the other. Bravely. Blindly. She imagines her neck kissed gently from behind somehow. A phantom thread connecting her to something, or someone.
My eyes focus on the poster in front of me. A gallery. She is exhibiting at her first gallery. A story of the sea. What else could it be about but the sea? I touch the poster with my fingertip and move backwards. Step by step. Step by step... So she is not hurt. C.B.
Hello my dear C.B. I first read your message this morning around 5AM, it is not quite sunrise here, first light one might call it I believe. The birds are singing which is a beautiful sound.
I have been laying here thinking about what you have written in your message. I'm sorry you were crying at your ivy tree and you seem troubled. I'm sorry that I hurt you but the feelings you expressed for me and your want of me not that long ago seems to have passed.
I wanted to feel all of the beauty of your love too but it would be impossible, I am too old to start all over again, my best years have passed. Yet still I dream of some obscure happiness.
Why would your hands not still be beautiful, I'm sure they are? Mine are still beautiful and soft even though they have worked hard. Why must you remain invisible, I'm sure you must be beautiful or at the very least attractive? I have not seen your face, I often wonder what you do look like, I wouldn't care if your face was old and craggy but I hardly think so since you must still be just past your 50th year. I will go to my grave not knowing your face.
You seem to have transferred your affections from me to this girl whom you watch through her window. Love is fickle! She I gather is young and more suited to your age. She would be most fortunate to have you kiss the back of her neck. I see you have paid close attention to her physical attributes.
Since you have feelings for her and she senses your presence and you say she feels the same about you, she might smile at you. You must stop being invisible and locked in this impasse. Why would the sight of you frighten her? How do you know that she needs no-one, she may be just as lonely as you?
You must move forward, not turn away. Since she is going to be exhibiting at her first gallery you must attend and start a conversation by admiring her work. That would be a move in the right direction. At least she is close by and not half way around the world! I wish you all the best and hope something wonderful happens. You see I do love you but I am not possessive, I want you to be happy, to feel complete.
It is light now so I wish you a peaceful evening. Please don't forget me, I am still your loving friend! Until next time, or I hope there is, much love Dianne. X
I feel very sad that I am not wanted any more but that is the regret I must live with.
The feelings that hurt the most. If only I was the person I was ten or so years back, there would be a difference and some hope left.
I wish you well my love, the one who has brightened my world! Please don't forget me? X
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