content with a contradiction

The lights are off and I am alone with a solitary candle. I’ve a glass of wine in my hand and I’m playing softer portions of the Gladiator soundtrack, particularly the hauntingly beautiful Road to Zucchabar. I’ve given myself up completely to the possibility of being sad and lonely tonight and am welcoming the coming of it. I look out the window at the tree branches and I cry out softly, where is she at? Am I not the right person yet? Have I not done the right things yet? Have I not gone where I should go yet? My head is unsteady from the wine, the light of the dancing candle flame flickers through the shadows of the room. I am giving myself up to lady loneliness.

And yet…

I am content. As I sit in the dark, the music playing and the candle flame flicker, my cat purrs on my lap and I enjoy the wine, and a small smile escapes my lips. I am perfectly content. I’ve tried to be lonely, but I am not. I do wonder if I should ever meet someone with whom I can spend the rest of my life with, someone with whom I can start a family, someone with whom I can experiene life on a deeper level with. Yet I live on a consistently deep level of experience already. That person is not likely to be cut from the same cloth as the multitudes around me, is she. No. She is likely to be the rarest of gems, the purest of crystal, the essence of elegance itself. And yet while I wonder slightly less than my aforementioned poetic musings on the topic on why I am still alone, I am quite happy.

It used to be that sitting alone in the dark with only candles and a dripping heart with me was a common occurence. Yet it is a rarity for me now. Try as I might, I cannot make myself lonely. I am happy of who I am, what I have done, where I have been, and where I wish to go.

And as my eyes are closed and I am smiling like a contented dog lying in the sunshine, a quick fantasy crosses my mind. I am walking down the street and I spy a woman sitting at table in a coffe shop window. She is dressed in jeans and a wind breaker and is reading something. Her hair is long and brown and thick and wiry like a scrub pad. Her face is without makeup but possesses a rich and natural beauty and expressions that need no paint. Walking by I am suddenly seized by her image and I go inside and kneel to her level in her chair and profess my love for her. She smiles and tells me that I know not her name, nor of her mind, so how can my heart profess such love. I answer that the heart does not give out tests, nor screens applicants, that it knows love only.

Strange dream to cross my mind. The image of the woman was a new one. I do not recall seeing that face before. Though I must admit that despite my strong beliefs in natural selection and the underpinning ideas behind existentialism and nihilism and the lack of any deity whatsoever, I still hold as the only sacred cow left to my heart the notion of true love. I’ll sacrifice my gods, I’ll disown my allegiances to nations and groups, I’ll turn away from family and friends, but I still hold dearest in my heart that true love exists, though nothing else in my philosophy at all is cooperative with the notion in the slightest. I am allowed my contradictions.


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