Little One

You’ve asked me to define love for you but is that what you are really asking, little one? I’d think its safe to say that we both know the truth. You are indirectly asking me to define “my love” to you.

I have become a spectacle of curiosities demise?

Is it the stories you’ve heard, have you been told the truth or the vague hypocrisy of hypothetical gossip, or is because I’ve put aside the mantle of black, amongst a sea of mordant apostates.

In a village where the sun cannot penetrate the wave of black widows weeds, it seems, little one, only us the women shall remain. Each with her own story, as each competes with the other as to who wears black to the finest degree. Surely its not worn for the dearly departed, do the departed even care if the black they wear is sun-bleached in sorrow, or dyed to compare with the bowels of Hades? I must say they wear it well — the elegance of their sorrow, a crease, a pleat for every year that passes, those creases competing with those hidden smiles and glimpses of life interrupted lurking beneath the rim of their kohl stained eyes.

Let me not get started with the black hung out by a thread to dry, for all to see, theatrical Pharisees on display swaying in the breeze, each garment a metaphoric visual — as Victoria and Provocateur lie hidden in the garden of the unforgiven.

Perhaps, the departed in there kegs are casting lots, as to who was loved the most in their afterlife — by the shades of black worn by the remains of time. Any antipathy, long forgotten, their exalted virtues henpecked by the burning of self righteous incense, that reaches the pillars of high heaven with the rotting stench of self-pity.

I suppose we are all guilty of self-pity at some point, the comfort found in the Sisyphean task, the wear and tear of rolling the boulder, when instead the boulder should be chiseled into the finest grains of grace. Everything in its allotted time, I suppose, what do you think — never mind.

I’ve neither worn the title of widow or its weeds, although I know I’ve seen the pitiful reflections of ‘the orphan’ and ‘the unfortunate’ in their eyes. This brings a lisp of humour to my lips, if I reflected my pity for them, it would only be unkind, therefor lets just allow them their bout of pretentious hubris.

I do not adhere well to the notion of orphan or unfortunate. Because you see, little one, I was never unfortunate or orphaned by love. I was unfortunate in life, not in my beginning, but in my puerile later… and certainly not today.

Is it because ‘my love’ is said, to be tragic, that you assume it is far greater importance then their story? My love was not tragic, its end here, in the here now was. Perhaps, there is something ethereal, to something, a life left unfinished. Everything born must have a telos or else they’ve never begun? Only the unborn remain unfinished. And my telos will never be bankrupt of love.

I cannot repeat my emotions nor mock them for you, little one. Although my mind and my heart replay them with a force that awakes me bathed in the afterglow of an unrepentant nightmare.

I choose to wear the colours of those I’ve loved and to bask in their light, and now I am condemned for it. It’s of no bother one more condemnation will not break the sloth-ish barriers of their conventional traditions . I just broke away from any misled part I took in them.

You’re just a little cherub, still earning your wings, let me just give you a little wind before you take flight,

Do not fear love, not when it is of a restless mind or in the throes of contemplation, not when it is winning and especially not when it is waning. Do not fear love, not when it is described by hearsay, or the relief of comic grief. Do not fear love little one, for it will not ask you your opinion nor will you have a choice in its say. We don’t choose who we love, love chooses us.

Do not fear, the spirit of love, for it never dies, it just migrates “to the strongest” part of you, the diadochos of your heart — the soul unviewed.

Fear love only when it is dressed in habit, in the nines with the bells and whistles of darkness, for that is when you will have forgotten how logical it is to live. That by not living you will never know how really simple it is to just love and that shall be the greatest tragedy of all.

My love — my love never betrayed me with a kiss.

Why are you nodding your head in agreement, little one, you’ve not understood a word I’ve said, have you?

Ahhh, I see, maybe its for the best…

Run along now, little one, and tell them I’m not competing…

Run along now, and just love — trust me the winner is the one who is dressed in light. And pray, little one, I’ll pray that in your bloom—that the after-light never darkens the psithurism on your door.

Oh, and little one, before you go, one more thing —

“Yes, Despinis…”

“Next time, tell the inhabitants of Peyton Place to ask me directly”, I digress.

Copyright © 2021. R Tsambounieri.