madness...be my sane valentine

It is a little past midnight and I still see sunshine.

Before I brushed my teeth a fly told me to write about love.  I presume that it is within the fairness of my duty to feed even the madness of my demons.

The misfit.  They call me.  Whose mind is in a whirlpool of what they call the bizarre.  In a mockery within those trying for themselves to fit me in what supposed to be the one to be understood and the one who creates obscurity in people who think they can understand.

But tonight is different.  I celebrate love as I remember settled whistles of my oddities.

Love, be my valentine.  But would you ask?  It is a poverty.  You lose as you give it.  The more you do, the more you become deprived of something you once have.  You propose to give even the ones you doubt to have.  Love is like a game where circumstance is your playground and your winning hand is uncertainty.  It is a choice and selfishness often rides along to undermine the kiss that whispers the promise of silent forever.  But I have to stop.  This is not a story about love.  But a moment with it.

But why would I believe in love if the tragedies behind hurt could cripple lives?  You say that loving is like the beauty of autumn, but when love fails many lives fall in disgrace like the autumn leaves.  I ask the why, you ask the how of why am I capable of denial.  I don’t - but I give you the sense to accuse my doubting.  But then I remember.  What is there that has no contrary to a beautiful thing?

The absurdity behind falling into loving is that you don’t grasp the realization of what pushed you to fall.  You just realize the difference that makes the difference.  You then become naked to the poverty of human weakness and the greed of malice - that you have to choose whether to be the one who shares out of love or the one who loves to be shared with being loved more.  The reason why we love is not because of what might have been but because of what we long to be.  Bound by the choices behind longing and the subtle perseverance in hoping.  To create the solemn accents of a lover and a beloved brought by the parading winds to create mornings of unruffled calm.  And gazed by the awaiting heavens.

To choose not to engrave promises on living thoughts but to weave hope in loving hearts.

I love hate as I hate love.  But not anymore.  Just the irony that makes the distinction.    

Every so often I wonder as I have been always asked if I had been in love.  Of moments when falling leaves would dance with the trials of your soul as they fall into rest of dispassionate serenity.

Every so often…I wonder.  I think I did.  But it is my demise to remember.

I have been bruised.  I have fallen.  But this is not my life-story.  This is an offering to someone I promised to write this for.  Undrafted circumstances, I promised still.  She is my known stranger.  And this is not love.  But you know the satire behind that testimony – that within the mysteries of love, the illogicality behind falling into it is the very reason why there is mystery and why there is illogicality. 

If you know her, you would forget all about this piece.  All you will remember is the invitation to wonder….

…how beauty can fit to a person.  Unsure but affirming, I say it just does.

Happy Valentine’s to you beautiful stranger. rheinanhd.