Friday! Yay! It's jeans-day at the office, and the last day of the work week, which time and again pulls me to make myself the same promise: "Now I'll get home and SLEEP until Sunday!". The clock this time doesn't count the hours for the work day to be over, but for the weekend and the resting to start. It's cloudy outside - heavily cloudy - so I brought my rubber boots. I'm missing my car and resenting the plate-restriction policy, particularly when I listen to Danza Kuduro from don Omar, which I enjoy along with a clipped up Fast & Furious video.
I'm feeling particularly, peculiarly in love. Time and again I stop in my tracks and marveling I remark to myself, "woman, you are really in love!". Sweet, sweet, old love. Isn't that the strangest thing on Earth? Perhaps it's my reading White Fang, but it feels like my inner wolf has wakened up to spring. These streets bring all sorts of sweet and beautiful memories, and the very asphalt connects me to other streets, other roads, be them born from asphalt, concrete, cobble stone, dirt or the aisle on a Boeing 747-400. I feel rich, rich like the good land, and as memories reveal themselves, they feel like slender wheat springs growing from my heart, breaking gently through my body and coming out of my skin to swing their soft, beautiful blond heads and blue flowers in the sunlight.
Eyes rush to my memory. Yes, eyes. It amazes me how much eyes have me under their spell. Even today, as I was on the bus to the office, a guy took the seat next to mine. When he did, he kept his eyes cast down, and I saw him as a terribly unattractive man, but as he wanted to get off the bus, he stared up at me with huge, beautiful green eyes and I marveled at how haven't I noticed before how incredibly handsome he was. But the eyes flooding my mind aren't those of random beautiful men on the commuter, but of those I have tasted. Name may have faded - some of them at least - but the eyes remain. I find myself petrified, as I grasp again the extent of my luck, of the countless and immense blessings bestowed upon me through my life.
It downs to me that I'm in possession of one of the greatest treasures of the universe. I hold inside me, locked safely in my mind, my heart, my spirit and my body pieces of the most wonderful people in the planet. From secrets never to be told, to unique moments of absolute bliss than can't even be pronounced, worded or captured my any man-made artifact, I hold inside me fabulous jewels that link my life to those of others, far away, who may or may not still keep the shavings, the snipets, the chips and crumbles left on them by me.
I find myself wishing to be an artist to be able and paint them or sculp them all for the world into the shape my soul sees them. I wish to be a poet to verse their endless, absolute beauty and the extent of their magnificense for the world to bath in them. I wish to be a musician to capture their eyes, their smiles and the particular ways of their minds and bodies, the dripping sweetness of their soul into a free song. But I'm just me. And I find it in myself that my feelings for them haven't died out at all, but they live and bloom more beautiful each day. No feeling is more important or stronger, or better than the other, for they are all fabulous blades of beauty lolling their heads in my personal garden.
I find myself burning up, in love with them, desperately in love with my boyfriend, and pitying those who walk around in life without having experience this delirious happiness, the taste of many flavours that linger in your tongue, the absolute, ultimate beauty of differences, variety. I pity those who run to a thousand and one empty fucks, those who use others for the elevating of their battered ego, their broken self image, to pretend to be what they are not, to fuck away in sex their own inadequacies. I pity those who link themselves for long periods to another person for all the worng reasons, or for empty reasonings, those who judge a relationship by its lenght and the officiality of it, without seeing the magic, the chocolate flavored sparks that fly in the sky when chemistry floats in either for a couple of hours where names aren't exchanged, into a fleeting relationship full of unknown and beautiful enchantment, where no prosaic things are traded, like phone numbers or e-mails, but where liberated kisses fly, hands roam win absolute freedom and bodies are taken without a hint of posession, but rather a desperate desire to live each second as some are unable to live a whole life.
I pity those who think that you've been given only one heart to love only one person, when truth is that your heart, your soul, your mind, your spirit and your body store all those wonderful, good touches and embraces, fleeting little caresses and secretive gazes of love and all of them grow stronger even if they belong to the past, they all make you richer, happier, more beautiful. I pity those who think many loves take away from you empovrishing you, chipping down your worth, when there's no touch of love that doesn't enrich you, that doesn't represent a mutual transfer, a magical touch that paints a shining colour upon your heart and opens wide new doors through which you can grow.
I'm endlessly happy, I'm in love with my boyfriend, and marveling at the feeling, and all the while I'm still relishing on the many colors of love my heart has picked up through the years.
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