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Friday, October 06, 2006

The Broken Heart

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The man in the silhouette night gown laid on his bed with his eyes closed tightly against the glow of the moonlight spilling in through the window above his bed. In his mind there appeared to be another light of some kind, a neon luster so to speak that seemed to glide around like small fairies dancing in some mystic fantasy land. He was sleeping with his former lover.
He laid on his bed, without moving, and slowly opened his eyes, exposing them to nothing more than the bitter darkness of the ceiling. Waking was the hardest thing to do these days, because he slept with her and woke with her, but she was never there.
Thoughts constantly haunted him day and night, he was always pretending to breathe the air she breathed, always hiding himself from the eyes of the world, from reality. Always he remembered, too. Remembered their past together and how the distance between him and her now cut like a knife, tearing his heart right from his chest and squishing it in the void that lay between the love he so wanted to feel again and the remorse of true reality. 
As he lay there on the now cold bed, he could see dust spoors floating in the moonlight like soft feathers dancing in the same way the neon luster in his mind danced like fairies. He was also sure, if he strained enough, he could hear soft thoughts speak, whispering her name to him.
‘I got to let you go,’ he whispered to the still darkness of his bedroom. He had known now for almost fourteen months that he had to let go, release his tension by letting go of the years they had spent together, by setting her memory free, but . . . the hardest part of doing that were the tears that stung his eyes every time he thought about losing her memory.
At night, while he lay as he was now, in the silence, in the slash of moonlight above his bed, her memory came to him like a shadow quivering against the wall. He could always see, in all the shades of night, her beauty, her smile, the nature of her storming him, and he craved to touch her once more.
‘I’m just wasting my time.’
Perhaps that was true, but whether he was wasting it or trying to regain it, he always knew he was praying for chances that will never be again.
His lost love filled the essence of his heart, of his sorrow, and there were countless conscious facts, known only to himself, that defeated his inner self and held him prisoner against the wall of her memory. He felt uneasy, as if he were a failure in some way, and every day he lived with those feelings because they had been handed to him without his asking and he now cradled them against his heart as a mother would cradle a newly born child, knowing all the while that all that he had once known and cherished, he had lost forever.
He now turned on his side, shading his eyes from the slash of moonlight, and began to loose himself again in the rising dreams they had once shared. He felt as if he was going insane with these thoughts of her which continued to rise in his mind, felt as if the shabby hand of Insanity was creeping stealthily towards him with every passing minute, with every thought as he faced his unforgiving mind.
Hope.
Could he really believe in that again? Could he ever find the hope to once again breath the air of another lover? His mind, no matter how forgotten to him it was, like the name of a friend from the past, became tormented by her memory again as it echoed to him from across time that remained unforgotten. To him, she was like a goddess, a splendor of all things in this wicked world. He wanted so much to feel relief again, to ease, to live once more. But there were always the sounds, a movement of chorus seeming to be built by the hands of time haunting his mind. He was unable to resist the sounds, could not withstand them, was unable to close his eyes while the sounds moved through his head. Her sweet moans from the past drifted to him as always and slowly he become entranced and lost across years in time. 

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