Letting go of the past is hard... & some of it is burned in, indelible even with the tide of time washing over it. This we have to accept.
I've often wondered how hard is it to give up... flashes of inspiration or incandescently creative works that bind us to memories we're trying to let go of ?
Some time ago, I wrote for a girl. Words that were forged in the fires of my desire, passion, apprehension & even anger. Poems... single sentences... free verses that laid bare my dreams & inked crimson by the earnest ferocity of feeling. When I read them, and I read them over & over... I was astounded. Astounded that I was capable of writing something so evocative for someone. By far my most intense work.
Me in blue cursive.
Life, being indifferent to the vagaries of human hearts, carried on. For the longest time, I kept those pages locked away... the only reason I can offer for doing so was because of the capability that seemed to course through them.
Today, I unlocked the desk & took up that bundle in my hands. Took them out to the balcony.
Without a final glance, with no goodbyes & only night standing witness, I burnt every last page.
Watched fire trace the edges.
Watched wind lift glowing remains into the night sky.
Watched without regret.
It feels like a fitting day to say it...
Chapter closed
Song for the moment: The Lonely Shepherd - Gheorghe Zamfir
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