Ambrosia
The echo shackles my stride, morphing into a second brimming with regret as if I cannot run without the chaos
That hounds me from the past. I realize these penalties have resided for a time long enough. And I, their sole artisan: The architect of the ruin, the destruction, and the unspoken traumas inflicted on others, never a serious topic of discourse.
Nevertheless, I savor the wound that arrives as I savor a solitary glass of whisky at the bar, contemplating all that I should not allow my mind to touch. In that chaos, a flower bloomed that should not be, amidst unmendable fissures and fractured ground, yet somehow, it grows as if it is perfectly placed. That hope appeared when I was numb, not with a tragedy demanding to be healed but as the beginning of something I started long ago which I believed was dead and buried a decade past; Now, it thrives, blossoms, and comes into full bloom.
On a journey to seek beauty in the gloom, I came upon a soul half-shattered, A precise reflection of my own, eaten by choking hatred and rising rage. Yet, she was not entirely dark, for she still held a reason to endure as young as her moments of pleasure. I am content with moments of stillness that can be heard without the need for shouting near the ear. The person I once loved now runs a race with me, a quiet competition: who can truly love the fullest.
Within the process of loving one another, an inner turmoil arises and contends, seeking truth amidst the mistakes and even justifying errors that should be left unsaid, untouched. In the end, all of it is merely water, useful for nurturing the bloom that grows: Love demands its nutrition. That sustenance is drawn from fierce debate and great battles that span many days. Ultimately, we always find a reason to walk together again where the shame of speaking and owning our failures is no longer a burden to be faced, but a frailty to be understood and pardoned.
Now I have found a profound answer from a heart that was betrayed and thought to be extinguished; There remains a crevice capable of being filled by love, and by the presence of one who truly wills to always be there, unafraid to face the ambiguity of my shifting personality, who can reach for the rope to tame the demon that dwells in my soul and who can become the cooling water when that devil is consumed by the fire of rage.
The world feels quieter now, without the need to seal the mouth, quieter without the need to cover the ears, quieter without the need to be alone. It is as if I yearn to savor every last second of my remaining years alongside her; thus, the mystery is to simply find the ambrosia.
It is a lie to say I do not long for immortality, but love is a selfish thing, demanding that all individuals sustain it even through the hardest of times. At least, mortality is what gives humans meaning to a feeling, a profound tumult that must be fully shaken, a necessity that must be consumed wholly and not shared. For betrayal is the root of ruin and trauma that seizes trust; it cannot wholly heal, skepticism’s presence always lingers, yet it can be bandaged by felt sincerity.
And I trust the Mothers may sense it, I trust the world may heed the thunderous zeal for a love of higher mintage. Whilst the celestial vault exults in our convergence, the winged choristers commence their rhapsody, since beholding the radiance of our twin smiles.
The night becomes balmy and star-laden as our palms interweave and our cogitations fuse, and the doom of my heart’s trajectory is vanquished and consummated by her.