Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part three - She's a mystery to me

The night was blurred in the way a fever makes everything hazy and seems to distort time and space. What he remembered was the laughing, a bottle shared of the most wretched liquid imaginable. Fingers found their way to phones as they called others to share our newly gained frivolity as sent terms of endearing love and joy to others were shared while the other giggled and laughed. It almost felt as if they lost their defenses in a manner that would not take a turn. 

The television hummed in the background of their minds as they struggled to speak between laughs. It was a moment not different from any other, they enjoyed their moments together without any reserve or apprehension. They continued to fall among stationary objects wondering what had cause them to trip upon the floor as they laughed their cares away as children often do at the mere mention of simple humor. As Jack and Jill before them, as they taken their falls with nothing to hold fast but each other and the immortality of laughter. 

  Darkness falls and she will take me by the hand
Take me to some twilight land

Where all but love is grey
Where I can't find my way
Without her as my guide

They lay besides each other as they giggled between words. And as all fairy tales there must always be an element of dread that must take hold of our cast least they should lose favor and the tale remain untold as so many times before. Conversation turns and a leap of faith turns into a drunkard's stumble with all the dexterity of one. All to honest words are shared as smiles turn still. They sit in the awkwardness and he realized that he said what he never said he would say again. The moment was too perfect and he'd fallen into a stupor that he swore off at 22 as he would swear off once more a few years pass. 

He stumbled back, not in command of his own sense but as a spectator of his own foolishness. Words may never be taken back, only owned without despair and he had no bravado left. He fell back in an anguished humiliation as he realized that his hands could not hide his error as it hid his face. She leaned in, heavy in breath as her hands found his ordered hair. Her words were soft with understanding and forgiveness as he only wish to be swallowed by the world. She spoke of his great aspects and he shook his head in denial. Treacherous tears flowed freely at her words, burning his cheeks with greater shame as he wished he was not there. He'd worked so hard to keep his wits and defenses up. Spent so much time studying the weight of his words only to have them betray his meaning with simply one glass of strong drink. What was it called again? Why was it so unbearable?

A love so sharp it cut
Like a switchblade to my heart
Words tearing me apart

He remembered shaking his head admitting that he could not recognize honesty and truth in these moments and that no one wanted what had no value. That his kind were only used in moments where it never meant well and they were tossed about as one would dispose of refuse. He could not understand the warmth of his neck nor the weight upon him, he was too involved in begging the forces that were to offer a hasten respite that almost none among Olympus would hear. The warmth of fingers were not felt loosening his restraints. Her words were not heard. Only his own attempts to silence her and or to drown out all sense. How could his tongue be so loose he pondered as she drove his mouth silent with her kiss.

 In the night of love words tangled in her hair
Words soon to disappear

His nature was torn asunder as Triune mind fought for control over a defeated id. The honesty of nimble fingers pull them closer. Breathy whispers escape as eager lips crave flesh and warmth. Skin yearns to be touched with fever rekindled and lust awakened. Physical acts emerge where no words could begin to derive meaning. And yet, a protest emerges. He tears away with inflamed protest and begins to speak. With clothing half removed and eagerness in eyes, he confesses that perhaps this is not best. His lips speak words that his hands call hypocritical as they caress warm, sweet smelling skin. He recants his quick hands and yearning loins admitting that drink may have taken the best of his actions.  Regardless of mutual lust and desire for the other he says that he can not with knowing mind allow himself to do this. He confesses his love to her and all that she means to him, yet he can not ravage her despite how he feels and how his hands still do not give way to his protest. 

He tells her that his actions must not be motivated by drink and that if he is to have her it must be a well thought out action instead. Perhaps ghosts of love past refrained him from moving on. He wanted her all, not partially. He wanted her until he took his last breath and wanted to know that she did also willingly. Small talk is had between stolen kisses and promises as they attempt to return their countenance. They smile, stealing glances at what the other carnally offers. And in a memory that will haunt him for cold nights when the blind blows her name across his face, he hands her laced bra and remarks how awe-inspiring her nipples are. A redden face with sly retort asks him if he is certain as he says watches their covering with only a sadden no to. They continue to speak until unconsciousness take him away. The moment will be robbed of him until time has pass and nothing can be done.

Night falls I'm cast beneath her spell
Daylight comes our heaven turned to hell
Am I left to burn and burn eternally

She will retain the memory even though he would simply forget what came to pass. There will be more moments when an innuendo is hinted and that moles "remain where memory is kept". He would remain puzzled and only wonder what she means. Time will pass as time takes them away from each other only to return them once more. Time has dulled is heart to an extent and she would recover from the loss of another suitor. Only death can bring them together. And only time will pull them apart.

Dormant hearts would only awaken once more creating evasion once more. There will be late hours together on achromatic couches while each craves a moment lost. He would reach out to her only to meet coldness of the moment. And yet, there is always an ache held by one or the other.  There would be hugs held longer than needed, stolen looks and secrets kept by the defensive and the forgetful. In the end, walls that hold them apart will fall and lines will be hazed. They will share abandoned moments of thought and mild drunken moments. He would always feel a piece of himself lost in those moments as he fought stupid actions not remembered and wonder why his heart aches for her in the dead silent of nights. He would write his soul to her and she would only toss him aside. He would resort to methods not his own, but offered by others who remark that there is nothing to be lost. And yes he knows that somehow he has lost enough. Her coldness in these moments hurts him deep and yet he knows not why he remains so close to her.

A fool, a motley fool at that.

She tears again my bleeding heart

I want to run she's pulling me apart
Fallen angel cry then I just melt away

He would abandon all and simply say what his heart could not contain. He would declare his love for her any moment he could, cursing the heavens for why words lacks what he so desperately needed to convey what burns him alive. He know his time is coming to an end and simply watches it slip pass fingers that can not grasp the moment. It is not to be said that they do not find moments of closeness. Teasing fingers and moist lips carve memories not to be forgotten and yet there is a restricted hold on him. She would only tease him in the end and knowing full well that the moment must end, he prepares his heart for the end it will meet.

He must not be allowed to be crushed again.

Not once more.

Distance is placed between them as he know their time is not ending. She distance herself from him, promising to visit and to be close again, yet he know there is another and vocal ques let him know she only distance herself to cut all ties. He hardens his heart once more and is not hurt at the goodbye he receives. Not the sound of voice but a cold social faux pas of a modern manifestation asking him to leave her be and to allow her to learn to love. He lets go without and moves on. It will be months before he would begin to piece together that lost moment.

He would move among the living once more as he was once before, carrying a sense of loss that he could not comprehend. He simply lost a damaged relationship and a girl that may have been something more. He lost her and he simply walked away covering all track behind him, hoping that she would not find him again. Well learned habits would kick in ensuring that he remained hidden as he faced greater challenges at the moment. He would attempt to reclaim his body, struggle to finish his studies and come to the aid of a friend who heart was left broken. He would gather the broken hearts of many once more and inspire love that he never has had nor could inspire in himself. There will be questions asked at which his shoulders would only give a slight rise and quick thought would only change the moment. He could not understand why she remains in his mind for so long until he heard the echos of words said to him repeated to his brother.

"We have too much boy scout in us. That's the problem."

Haunted by her side
It's the darkness in her eyes
That so intrigues me
But if my love is blind
Then I don't want to see
She's a mystery to me

Love's Naloxone Or Taking the Anti-love pill. Part two - Hurt

Trying to begin this entry is as hard as swallowing the desert a spoonful at a time.You never know how to start, the task will be long and painful and you know you can never put a dent in it regardless of how hard you have tried. Trying to cut to the bone would only condemn me rather than to offer insight or any compassion. Even Milton offered Satan a soliloquy and chance of compassion before committing any atrocities.

Funny, I'd never thought I'd associate myself with him early in life. And yet, Milton offers him not as an elemental force of evil and corruption, but as the example of true humanity and the pitfalls that lays wait for someone who attempts to attain a sense of humility and servitude to an unaccountable deity that offers no explanation or comfort, but a cold resolute of insignificance that offers only horror in ones core.

They call me rebellious and yet what other means did I have?

I still hold those moments close. I often recollect them in a mixture of calm abhorrence and remorse for actions I've committed that still haunt me. Reflecting on them with a sage's understanding, well earned patience and scarred understanding of what is right and wrong. Always questioning my methods and practices asking the hard question, hoping for some forgiveness that time has promise, finding none.

How will I find the redemption if I can not offer myself absolution?

Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair 

There are moment when I can't help to abandon any hope, not in romantic intentions held by Byron or Shelly, but out of near necessity. I honestly, don't have the time to doubt my actions as of now or to question my reason at this point. And yet with my mind I can't help to analyze my motives with every move. Thoughts scoured multiple times before uttering as Avey once showed me, in hopes of gaining greater understanding of the weight of my words and the meanings they offer to others. Perhaps my monkish behavior is my way of paying penance for an action taken or for behavior not corrected until now. In understanding, pain is the vessel that bring meaning into being. It offers us the the true value of the cost of our action and inaction.

I dare not offer excuse. It would only give insult to injury. In the grand scale of it all it doesn't matter. The creative use of insight and facts doesn't correct what was committed or clean off any slate stained. It only removed responsibility from the hands of those who took part regardless of why. Blood stained hands offer no resolution to our infractions nor does it paint us as heroes or saints. Washing ones sin only removes the marker from present view rather than from out conscious. Our minds hold fast on these images not to offer insight or thought, but to remind us with relentless alarm that something went wrong. It doesn't matter if we utter some guttural mumbling on how we were not to be blamed or that we simply followed rather than question. I ask not for the marker of my trespasses to be cleansed. I'd rather hold them as reminder that we are not noble among beasts or pious outside of our own imagination

I focus on the pain
The only thing that's real 

Perhaps it's why I question everything now. Mayhaps it why I'm am most zealous in having everyone to ask the hard questions and to stare down the elephant in the room instead of ignoring it for some social canon. To err is human and even with that we can not help to cause suffering in our actions unless we take in all that we affect in order to bring hold a greater understanding of our motives and causes. I do not ask for devotion, but understanding. I do not require perfeckion, but patience. I do not ask for praise, but for compassion. I know my limitations and know with every reflection that I can be the worse of humanity. I can corrupt, destroy, distort, and lay waste behind me without any remorse.

Seeing yourself in the worse light possible gives a well pain understanding. It lets us know we can inspire hatred and fear in the eyes that fall upon us. It causes us remain in shadow for relief rather than need. It taints us and makes us nothing greater than vicious and nothing nobler than savages. I do not need forgiveness of those ordained. I need this weight upon my shoulders to know when the next preventable atrocity will be committed. If I can prevent another act of violence upon another then my price paid will cover them also. In a world filled with so much pain and violence, how could we not save others from our own living nightmares?

That is what makes me a survivor. I'm decreed with not a title, but a responsibility to never forget and to never let the same evil come to pass. There is nothing greater than this.

I will let you down
I will make you hurt

And with every price paid it offers both positive and negative results. It gives us both sight, but it often takes more than what we are willing to give. In this, I understand my shortcoming. I know when I'm limited. And yet, I can't see where the veins of this has reached until I find the manifestation of this.

What am I trying to say?

With all of this, I can't help to feel I'm not a complete human being. I can't help to feel that I carry a stain on my that will harm others I come in contact with. I can not help to feel that I can not be around people for too long without causing some sort of outbreak that will only bring others down.

There are moments when I feel nothing but hatred and anger. As much as I attempt to separate these feelings from those closest to me, I know that I sometimes carry an aura of suffering, anger, destruction, mayhem, a a desire to see all around me burn. And anger that have cost me more after the fact than at the moment it had happen. It causes me to lose restraint and collection. Hold these moments force me to ostracism and isolation. It prevents me to remain close to those I already have near. It reminds me that I will lay waste all around me sooner or later. I'm slow to anger, but my fury is relentless. I will draw blood. I will hurt. I will cause suffering on a level that will scar the mind and offer not resolve. I can terrorize and beguile and commit the unimaginable without a second of defense.

Those sparse moments usually have me in tears soon after. A moment of lapse judgement and an eternity of anguish afterwards. Heavy guilt and pain sets in. For an action that took place in a blink of an eye I will bury myself in greater shame.

Everyone I know
goes away
In the end  

Everyone does. Sadly, it's usually by my own hand.The fear to interact with another life and bring a chance of suffering to another holds my head heavy. I push those near me farther away in hopes of saving them from what I can do. Limit myself with only so much contact and going over brings me anxiety. Having people around me for too long brings a feeling of fear that I may be found out that I am not who they think I am. That my past will catch up me and condemn me to days of future past. A facade humanity and compassion. Someone who should have been driven away or burned. to be hunted down and strung up for all to see how low Man does fall. To be made into example and told in stories to frighten children from thinking twice and to accept what the authority demands without query.

I've broken a few mirror in my time. A scarred hand is an easy enough exchange than having to stare into my own eyes. If I look too closely I don't see hatred.

I see sorrow.

The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I am still right here  

In truth, the topic is love that I write. It's what drives us to take embrace with those closest to us and to desire only the best for them. It forces us to protect and nurture. It forces us to defend and makes us invested. It can make use greater than who we are now. It can also make us lesser than who we are. It's a primal feeling that intermingles with jealousy and lust. It can not be explained on an evolutionary level until we are able to form words and figures to attempt to express to others the elemental drive that causes us to abandon all hope and thought. It causes us to mutilate ourselves figurative, mentally and physically to appease another. It pulls us in a warm embrace that can be followed by a choice that many of us face. Meatloaf declared it simply and is still used to question. It forces us to honestly as what we are able to commit in order to continue the release of chemicals that keep us in an induced stupor.

To say that I committed everything out of love offers no reprieve. It does not pardon us or make us less to blame. It doesn't make the situation easier, but makes us selfish. We mock those whose are addicted to a substance, but what is it to be said that love cannot be used in the same manner. How can it not be a weapon in the hands of others? How can it not be used to cause pain and suffering? Does it simply become ignored because it's euphoria advances life? So does war. So does any form of conflict.

In my experienced life, I can honestly say that love can kill. It can kill who we were and make us less than we were. It can make us into the worst we can be.

It's that powerful. It has that kind of hold that one can create or they can destroy. The only difference is the direction. It's elemental and primal and to understand the weight of it will cost you as it cost me.

Heart break? No. No. It was not a heart break. It was worse. I'm still cleaning up that mess. I'm still trying to make things right.

What have I become
My sweetest friend

It's perhaps this that keeps me studying my thoughts, language, and motives. It's perhaps this that has me attempting to understand the meaning of something that poets will can not agree on. It has me understanding how people are always willing to give into the those actions in order to feel special. I have to admit, my happiness is usually derived from other sources and yet it can not help to intermingle with love. I can't help to wonder if the person across the room would be my solution. My sanctuary from it all. I'm not made of stone regardless of how others and myself may see it. And yet, I'm very cautious on how I interact with others and what level of endearment I should allow myself to approach. In truth, I always reach the end that allows me to walk away. I love them enough or more to never interact with them.

Perhaps I do love you all?

And yet, I can not help moments like these when I know how it will end. How I continue to ponder the right way of accomplishing it with the least amount of backlash to others. I know time is a factor and when things are right I will go the way so many of my kind have gone. I've lived multiple lives and rose from different ashes as different people. Yet at my core is this weight that year after year only remind me of what a foolish act can wroth. I continue to smile and laugh. I continue to pull those on the way side and pull their weight until they can stand once more. I fight for what is right and will stand against what isn't. My life is not my own as yours has never been. We are all in this together and the more we cut the other the more we bleed ourselves.

I make no excuses and advertise myself as anything other. I offer caution to not get too comfortable. I will leave you in one way or another. I will pass the time, but my time is limited if not by my own hand than by means that I've come to accept so long ago. I will always love you as you deserved to be loved, but not in the way you want it to be.

And yet, I still catch myself looking over and returning a smile. Somethings can not be helped. And still, I know where I will be in the end. 

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way