carrying the heart

“i carry your heart with me (  i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it ( anywhere

i go you go ,my dear ; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing ,my darling)

i fear

no fate ( for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world( for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you.”

-e.e. cummings

It began with Pablo Neruda , all wrapped neatly in a pretty floral package with a small green ribbon

( for spring) and it had ended with a sheet of paper upon which e.e cummings was quoted in true

sepia ink , one of many hand written attempts to say something , to convey a message that would surely

awaken even the  heart of a stone , assuming stones have hearts…

but do stones have hearts?

and do all beings who claim to have feelings, emotions, tears, feel pain and pleasure are able

to feel when others feel too ?

The world, it seemed during that season of final confrontation of truth versus illusion, is divided into those

who carry the heart and those who squash it, step upon it, toss it, drop it somewhere where they forget to reclaim

it, or simply seem to be missing it..

“Anyone with a heart would look at me

and know that i love you

Anyone who ever dreamed

could look at me

and know i dream of you

knowing i love you so

Anyone who had a heart

would take me in his arms and love me too

you couldn’t really have a heart and hurt me

like you hurt me and be so untrue

what am i to do? ”

-Burt Bacharach

Later, much much later, there would be a meeting with someone who would be writing lyrics for Burt Bacharach and would have an older lady with undyed grey hair dancing to his guitar playing on stage nursing a small but concentrated drink ..

Later , much much later, there would be days without pain, there would be other plans, there would be conclusions and there would be no more attempts at purchasing affection or pointing it out with red marker cirlces: SEE ! FEEL! THIS WAY ! to a lost soul so obviously missing , so obviously lacking a heart that can actually love back in return for one or two very good poems.

Later , much much later, there would be happy days spent not thinking, not looking back, not reflecting upon the hours spent wondering why?

Later, much much later, there would not be a need for the confusion involved in receiving mixed messages

Later, much much later, it would be possible to hear French songs and not want to break down and cry

Later, much much later, it would be possible to hear soft music and not want to drown it with loud instrumental

jazz..

Later, much much later, it would be possible to pass all those dark holes and not fall into them

later, much much later, as the Tibetian parable goes, there would be another street to walk

leading to a forest where flowers bloom and birds sing songs of joy sometimes and not be a constant

reminder of the disappointment spring has been ,is and will be since being the cruelest month of the year

when the snow finally melts and the dead bodies of lost hopes lay there looking so beautiful

but ready to decay slowly into the warm days so not even the cool evening breeze could revive

any of it,

any bit of it

ever..

About seagullsea

a seagull flying over the great ocean of life observing.
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