Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Mirage of Homage
I'm pretty sure I can't take reading one more collection of words some man has written about his devotion for the woman he loves. Usually, I well up with mudita, but tonight I feel very delicate and tender, raw. I am maybe even a little envious (although envy is fairly foreign to me).
My memory echoes with words which were whispered and even shouted to me, words that I know are now whispered and shouted to another. And I wonder why I'm so far past that section of road now, so far I can't even remember what they sounded like.
I wonder if that place was like the shimmery illusion one sees during summer when the heat rises off the asphalt and everything seems magical for just a moment. Were those words even spoken? If I went back to that spot in time, would I hear them, disembodied, repeating like a scratched record, over and over? ~~GH
[Tomorrow: Give Freely]