The great treatise

The great treatise, the grand answer of life is nothing. Not in a negative way. Simply, it is that point between one moment and the next. It builds with the lover awaiting word of a war removed mate. It lies in the deep valleys of fear. Of pain. Vast fields of pain.

From keeping yourself at the point where you don’t truly love her. Something is kept back. And maybe down the years she’ll cry, and, knowing, will ask you why you never fully loved her. And you tell her, that if you hadn’t kept some back, there’d a been no spark. No mystery. No reason for fights.

Because unconditional love is precious. It is not to be given to one and all. It is to be shared with all who fit into its vast embrace. But, at the core of things, at the very base, perches the everlasting fact that you die alone. There is no such thing as redemption. Perhaps things go on, or perhaps the grooves of existence will simply go on without you.

And so the uncertainties of the word, the painful unfulfilled desire to write, interrupted by this so wonderful of a quagmire. But perhaps soon the tap will be turned off, the pleasures of companionship and life coaching (hehe) with it. And love. Love would leave. Goodbye love. For king, for country. Fuck the king.

What kind of god would be so cruel as to make her. To show me all the qualities that make a woman great, then wave her in front my face, before taking her again from me. Into the hands of one equally, if not more, worthy. But I remain by far the most worthy. I have put myself in the face of destiny, and let my instincts flow.

I was myself. I am someone I’ve never met before. Someone bad. Someone who is really not a nice person, buried in grief and anxiety, grinning wildly as she broke my heart, again. This time, it was in the living room. Perched atop a tan couch I watched her turn, hearing her confirm her open options policy. And me riding the fine line of a long term options policy.

Because you really have got to think about that, these days. Fuck. 29. it’s just a slump. Keep you head up legs closed eyes open. What pressures stress induces on the soul of the pessimistic.