Something wild in me loves you and you cannot control wild things.
I love him because I choose to love him.
I love you because I can’t help it.
Source: Native to this Place (defunct) blog
Something wild in me loves you and you cannot control wild things.
I love him because I choose to love him.
I love you because I can’t help it.
Source: Native to this Place (defunct) blog
He lays in bed in peaceful sleep…
She carefully settles herself beside him,
so as not to disrupt the calm he rightfully needs,
and softly presses her lips on his shoulder
embedding the secret of a lingering love
through a promise she has yet to break.
He’s probably miles away in his dream now
together with the gentle waves
of every sea he has relished,
the sun in its descent
in its surrender to the dark,
amid echoes uttering verses
from the most remarkable minds he has known.
The color and depth of his thoughts
would kiss her in moments of wakefulness
assuring her of the presence she yearns for
inside a world she’s come to embrace.
Beyond comparison with anyone else
she continues to cherish him
with his meaningful freeways, skies and metaphors.
The beauty of words keeps its wrap around them
even though they both knew
they’d never find their home
against space and time.
-geena, July 2016
Yes. Our kind.
We revel on endless discussions over the beauty love brings to our beings; the luxury of more than enough words to epitomize the feeling. Everything sweet sweet sweet.
It’s why people like you and me have since been hurting. We think we have it that we may be able to give to others in a breeze; we can’t be more wrong. The brokenness could be severe, or the wound way deep.
We get uncomfortable upon awareness of strands that might soon string us. Anything longer than two weeks? My my. And no, no conditions please.
The vision is worth it, isn’t it? But who gets to know? Not me. What do I know about life and love. I’ve had four decades to show how I’ve erred on such areas repeatedly.
We’ll always be here nonetheless. A lifetime is spread wide to describe something that’s constantly out of reach. Here in this cloistered sphere where we hide,
where we connect continents into the shape of a heart; where we dream up characters we can romance and lose and resurrect; where we write beautiful long dearest letters that are subconsciously meant for ourselves. Words instead of love… for the difference is sometimes imperceptible. It’s easier adopting the lingo of a yearning soul.
Interpretations can be addicting; It’s what we do to combat the emptiness of our ways,
against the mirror which keeps reflecting the man or woman who cannot teach or reteach themselves the true meaning of love.
Pretty unexpected of me to say this, yes. Somehow it’ll dawn it’s not quite surprising; we knew all along but wouldn’t risk making it apparent to others.
Maybe we’ve run into some possibility from time to time; a someone we can imagine watching rainbows with for the rest of our years. We then get excited; until corners of dissatisfactions begin pulling us aside once more. Deep in our hearts we already know: No imperfect stranger is really welcome. Not to a solitary place within that’s long been guarded. The mark is in the palm of our hands — nobody is ever good enough. We deem ourselves that impeccable.
And so on and on we keep going. On and on and on.
A day for tinted roses, soft words, thoughtful prose, and tender songs. Most of them I still find either lovely or silly cute.
From across a window with glows of tiny moonbeams infusing my home, an air of sweetness has honored one faint white line.
I fancy the language of gentleness within my own heart — that my blog has, in sooth, become a true love of mine.
Most Favorite Love Song When I Was A Young Girl
An apathetic fraction of me asserts romance novels and songs like this must be held accountable for womenkind’s desolation from then till now. But it’s Valentine’s day and, as always, this memoir must hold true to my every remembrance.
I recall quite a sunshine across a vibrant sky whenever I hear this song. Oh so so young I was – around eleven years of age – and dreamy… singing while unbelievably convinced by forevers and of undying love. 🙂
– geena, feb2016
So the weary traveler, tired of passing through,
Stops to get his bearings, and stays on to wait for you,
When the moon disappears forever
and the sun shines electric blue
And the mountains and trees tumble into the sea
to rest there for eternity
No matter what you do, I will still love you.
Because nobody can break out from the digestive process of this feeling our whole lives. Certainly not me.
Destitute in spirit, I’ve given out my love and care in unlikely places where they’ve been needed and I’ve let the warmth of that knowledge enfold me.
But I’ve also wandered over emotional fires where I’ve soon begged for raindrops to fall onto my face. I’ve no want for anything murky, punishing, unequal nor untrue anymore.
I’ve to unravel this part of me that isolates such uncertainty. This part of me that fumbles across a barrenness that barely retrieves my understanding.
Who is this woman, and how has she grown past her wounds?
All I see is the girl whose face is turned upwards with arms outspread wide waiting for the flames of sky to claim her.
Wild in affection. Deep in love. My heart. My soul. This paradise.
— geena, feb2016
A cliché. A song with the same title she even deems fairly unappealing. But the title, the line “what I did for love” speaks true of her past.
She used to be the young woman who had dreamed there was a kind of love worth dying for. The young maiden who, as a child, hadn’t felt the mandatory loving atmosphere at home that she tried to find it from men who might have perceived, or not, the pleading tone underneath “Can you put me foremost in your heart?” But she’s probably one more of the countless women wanting of the right amount of self-esteem nearly all their lives. A woman true to form who’s unable to apprehend the ground around her.
“How dare he hurt me this much. I’ll never speak to him again.” Next thing she knows, her feet could only lead her to where her heart is. Scenes from a movie where after a knock on the door the man opens it to find himself face to face with his woman—not too long after a quarrel—in despair and in complete surrender: That’s her.
But for dreamers like her, true love simply remains beyond reach.
“I’ve come to know the bitter taste of being with a man who could only crush my soul.”
In a dream, I’m slowly walking through a fog. My eyes catch the view of a young woman, not too far away, quietly crying. The fog thins out as I get closer – only to reveal that the young woman is me from a long time ago.
A most difficult sight for me to hold onto; I begin to speak, “Don’t let your heart take on this inconsiderable load. There’ll come a day when you can’t even remember how and why you felt this strong. Please. Value your heart more.”
She looks back hard at me and all I see is the face of a young woman consumed by passion that spurns suppression coming from her temperate mind. She isn’t dumb not to comprehend the wisdom of what she’s just heard. Still, she commences taking a step away from me so she can be on her way – to the arms of the man who has been the core of all those tears.
In my last attempt to compel her to sensibility I seize her arm to stop her. “It isn’t worth it. Not for any man who’s causing you this much pain.”
She, of course, struggles to break free from me and walks away.
Sometimes I ponder if at this stage in my life I am no different at all from the girl I used to be. A frightening notion. Petrifyingly shameful, to be precise. At a period when the gates of love are in need of the right warrants. At a period when serenity is the sine qua non the sky must bring to me.
There are truths that will in time become as clear as sea.
Caution to probable male readers: This is not for the faint of heart. I had flicked off a few of my blog buddies, one by one, just to be able to write posts like this. But then, I suddenly found myself earning a new set of dude pals because I just couldn’t help myself from clicking Like on your impressive blog posts. Now I may have another batch to flick away – soon. 😀
Nobody in my childhood and teen years had hammered to my awareness the value of enriching the mind. I was raised in a household that glorified good looks more than cerebral strength. Same as to the necessity in complying with societal norms; Everyone should get married, have children, try to live happily ever after.
In the recent past, almost everybody never gets tired aiming these questions at me: “You aren’t seeing anyone anymore? Do you realize how much you’re missing out on not having a man?”
If the inquisitor is a female, it’s tempting to bounce back with: “You know, you’re just too dull to cultivate any hobbies instead of immersing yourself with the crap your man throws your way.”
If it’s a man, it would be lovely to imagine myself blurting out: “@s$h*l*.”
But I try to manage with a smile. Sometimes my counter goes like “Eh, they’re all the same” — although it may prompt me to run for my life afterwards. 🙂 My safer candid reply has come down to, “If only it was that easy to hook up with anyone for hooking-up’s sake.”
Look, I’ve been through all that – young love, sweet romances, affairs, marriage, matrimonial dissolution, dating, younger men, etc. They entirely sum up to an unfortunate truth: I wasted too much of my precious time on men.
Don’t get me wrong. I do like men. No, to be precise, I love men. They’re fabulous friends, buddies, helpers, acquaintances, entertainers, co-workers, bosses, business partners, etc. I am grateful for having them around.
And I still get crushes: I blush helplessly in front of a ridiculously handsome, humorous, charming man; glance surreptitiously at the hottest-looking guy inside a 7-11 store; fall off my chair (out of admiration) reading well-crafted blog posts of interestingly (emphasis on the term interesting) intelligent men. I may be jaded, but I’m not dead.
In the actual romance department, though, it’s undeniable men are fantastic only during the early stages — best to enjoy them while they’re still into you, I mean. Subsequently, things inevitably turn downhill.
Before I forget, the words sharp and “very wise” have also been used to describe me.
The highest number of responses I garnered came from my “opus” — https://justmarj.wordpress.com/2013/11/16/the-satirical-hard-facts-about-being-single-strictly-for-ladies-only/ — which received mild criticism from one or two co-bloggers who told me I had been merely lashing out for all the romantic blows I took in the past. Partly true, I guess. Even so, my major issues remain: Why do women generally have to come out as the pathetic gender in the sphere of love? Why are they willing to swallow a massive nutty pile of bullshit from their partners just to duck the prospect of being alone, at least, for a while?
Unless you were fortunate to have ended up with the person The Gods of Heavens had matched you up with, sustaining a relationship would be a lifetime of struggle. Especially for the woman who’ll always be on the losing side by reason of her cultural status and emotional constitution. Why has jumping through hoops always been the woman’s task?
The principal cause of men misbehaving happens to be us, too. We women let them get away with unacceptable behaviour. Then we feel dreadful and disgraced for having allowed the mistreatment.
All around me I see only couples who simply go on enduring the company of their better halves for whatever reasons. They aren’t happy, either. A greater number are even tons unhappier than the unmarried ones. And there’s this thing I have noted as well: The inevitable crisis of growing old could tame some men and make them behave better, or finally results to them becoming improved, docile mates. Nevertheless, what kind of woman would be willing to wait that long?
Loneliness is likely the no-joke repercussion most single women can’t bear going through. As for me, I don’t feel the type of loneliness these women are straining to dodge. Honestly. Maybe I’m finer flying solo. Or perhaps, for mysterious reasons, it just doesn’t bother me. The conformists will, however, always have something unpleasant to say to my case and argument.
I watched an Oprah episode on man-woman issues ages ago that had one man asserting, “Most often (for us), it’s all about right timing.” The rest of the men in the audience nodded. It’s that simple. I wish I had known that in my much younger days. I wish all women knew that. So they wouldn’t have to shed all those tears and keep jumping through hoops which are undesirable corollaries to the “privilege” of staying as the other half of a couple.
To my mind, still, that man’s sentiment is a brown nutty pile of bullshit.
I couldn’t think of a better title for this post other than the the words “love isn’t always on time” from the lyrics of “Hold The Line,” my favorite from the band Toto. The song says it well: It’s never really about what the woman does to keep a man. Please get that, my fellow gals.
During my early blog reading days, I came across a few ladies who had been writing love poetry — in their forties and onward. Bemused and amused, I thought no way could it happen to me. But time moves on and perspectives change. Well, it’s still the month of February and I don’t want to miss this chance of being able to compose something that’s so close to what I may be comprised of: All feelings, a silly heart, and not much else.
Tale of the drifter, the loner… of someone who has yet to write her life certainties — barreling along an emptiness which fuels her boldness.
What future can she find in your own dreams? She’s been a prisoner for some time, shackled by a guilt pieced from her own blood.
Another lifetime can take you and her to another world, and reasons nor rhyme would flow in haste.
But love springs on her own terms, with ideals as delicate as of a nun taking her vow.
It can’t be love if there has been no pledge of faithfulness; It can’t be love if a promise of forever isn’t whispered by both hearts.
But both have become pawns from across the margins of time.
When the moon has called her back to you on a quiet evening, she begins to lace a bond that will make it all worth remembering. And you take her by the hand, you enfold her in a careful embrace, while feeling the night through the gentle demise of your own affections.
One beautiful headstrong woman; Three exceptional men who want her.
Her name – Bathsheba Everdene. Why Thomas Hardy named her heroine as such is beyond me. Furthermore, he describes her in this manner:
A girl with peculiar vernal charm; An Elizabethan in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit.
In modern terms, he’d probably describe her, too, as having spunk and oomph.
Now let’s get to the men who locked horns for Bathsheba’s love:
Gabriel Oak – a farmer and shepherd, penniless nonetheless; “A young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character”; In other words: the good guy.
Sergeant Francis Troy – the playboy soldier; Handsome and exciting; the kind girls swoon for. “He could be one thing and seem another. For instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner at the same time.” Spelled out with better clarity – the bad guy.
Mr. Boldwood – another farmer, though more well-to-do and respected; A man whose constitution is somewhere between good and evil. Beware: he can get really weird in the name of love. To put it more bluntly – a stalker and looney in one.
Bathsheba, a poor, pretty girl suddenly inherited her uncle’s farm and started proving to everyone a female honcho can be competent in the business of agriculture. She employed her former suitor, Gabriel Oak, in the process as her right hand: The man whose simple love and devotion toward her was unparalleled.
By reason of a careless flirtation, she also caught the attention and affections of a rich farmer, the stoic Mr. Boldwood. He became obsessed with her and pursued her relentlessly. But in the middle of it all, head-spinning romance overpowered her good senses after her encounter with the new guy in town, the dashing Sergeant FrancisTroy – who had had an intermittent relationship with another woman of lesser means. The name of Bathsheba’s indigent rival: Fanny Robin.
Our heroine eventually married the cunning playboy soldier. Fanny died while secretly bearing Troy’s child. The sergeant, heartbroken by the death of his true love, disappeared and was presumed dead. Boldwood rekindled his hopes on ending up with Bathsheba. But Troy, out of dire straits, reappeared – more than a year later – to claim his right on his wife and her finances. Boldwood fatally shot Troy and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Bathsheba became a true widow then and finally realized it was Gabriel she couldn’t live without. She vowed to live happily ever after with him.
No spectacular plot twists nor thick story lines, are there? I’ve no problem, though, with the ending where Gabriel wins the girl. He finally deserves his cake after all. 🙂
Yet this book happens to be my most favourite classic so far because, for one, Thomas Hardy was strikingly Promethean in his expressions – way superb for a 19th century wordsmith. Take a look –
As Bathsheba starts falling into the hands of ladies’ man Troy:
Capitulation – that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it was – capitulation; unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiled within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loophole in Tophet – for the moment was the turning point of a career. Her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere question of time and natural changes.
On Boldwood’s unrequited love for Bathsheba:
She had been the very lung of his hope. He had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. No mother existed to absorb his devotion, no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became surcharged with the compound which was genuine lover’s love.
If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed.
Moreover, Thomas Hardy could dig deep into genuine human nature and psyche, as evidenced by the majority of his novels. To illustrate (using this novel) –
There is a loquacity that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba’s; and there is a silence which says much: that was Gabriel’s.
On Bathsheba’s torment over her feelings for Troy:
Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away.
‘Loving is misery for women always. I shall never forgive God for making me a woman. I don’t know what I’m doing since this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me so. Oh, I love him to very distraction and misery and agony.’ – Bathsheba
And lastly, the summation of the romantic relationship between Bathsheba and Gabriel:
This good fellowship – camaraderie usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love, which is stronger than death.
Hmm…Ideal and well said, I suppose. 🙂
Reading this classic by Mr. Hardy was worth every bit of my time.
Valentine’s Day might have rolled off without me as the other half of a romantic couple, but please, sing no doleful songs for me – because love still abounds within and around me. Love that I have for my son, for the few family members and friends I’ve still got, for the things that make me happy. Even though I have made the decision to eschew actual liaisons in my life, it still holds power upon my being as a woman… and I would forever have this need to write about it. A misty-eyed 14-year-old red-rose dreamer I remain.
Talking about the four-letter word that has consumed every female being on our planet since time immemorial, is there any higher mystery that has ever lived inside our minds and souls? How often have I seen women appeal for love in the same way they appeal for mercy in the face of life’s unforgiving peripheries? How many women like me have been taken in by its glowing illusions and promises?
In a land notable for people willing to die in the name of love; where round-the-clock “telenovelas” lord over TV ratings, and endless media themes speak of passion “conquering it all,” people here from all walks of life clutch stories of high and low from the annals of their beloved sentiments.
A measure of emotional chaos had already presided over a huge fraction of my younger years – courtesy of many a rambunctious affair of the heart. Could it have something to do with the precarious self-esteem I’ve carried around which stemmed from my childhood insecurities?
One delicate lesson I’ve learned from those years: The surest way to drive yourself batshit insane is to cling to the notion that love will stay, when it is in fact wiggling in all directions to depart from you.
So I’ve often found myself asking this question: What do I make of the rules when my heart usually does the thinking for me?
The rules of love I am always in danger of forgetting.
The rules of love I have, in helpless frustration, inked onto my skin.
It’s been more than a year since I’ve freed myself from any romantic entanglements on my side of the globe here. The main purpose of which is to keep me away from an internal cage I have long since escaped. I was starting to think I’d never get the brand of peace I’d been searching for. So I had to run away in hopes that tranquillity would be able to find me. Gradually somehow, it came and I got it. I almost couldn’t believe it. Simplicity and space had held dominion; allowing for sensible calm to reign inside of me; granting me a tempered existence…and a liberation that surprisingly gave me some of the most remarkable times of my life. So I began to think happiness would be here to stay. Finally. Then came the major blow last month that brought me to my very knees. The one that shattered my hopes for a continuous path layered with calm and beauty.
It’s like I’ve closed my eyes with a smile and dreamed of rainbows and butterflies. But when I opened them again, a totally different world has taken place. Completely.
Months ago, I watched Rihanna’s tearful confession at the Oprah channel of how she still feels for the man who has assaulted her. She got castigated and maligned by the public as a result of that interview. I may not have gone through what she experienced, although as I watched her painfully shedding tears over a first love she just couldn’t let go, I somehow understood her. I don’t necessarily condone the actions that took place between Rihanna and Chris Brown. But the girl merely in need of drama in her life, they say? No. It’s just a woman in love who couldn’t help being true to her feelings.
When we were little children, my parents would watch popular reruns of Tom Jones’ musical show and made us dance every time he commences with the upbeat tune of “It’s Not Unusual.” Before the end of the show, he would belt out tender, ardent songs like “You’re My World” and “I know” – and my sister and I would listen. When we became young girls, we’d remember and be dreaming of the princes in our futures who would feel that way about us. Just like in those songs.
Then we all grew up…and we lived…and we learned.
You began to realize no man is worthy enough to make you consign your heart to prison once more. In the same vein you get jaded by the reality that princes do turn into frogs eventually.
Valentine’s Day – and what it stands for – will preserve its magic in my mind nevertheless. Besides, it’s always good to foster the feeling until the end of your days.
That‘s how you find the emotional girl in me. The girl who may be cited for not truly condemning drama in her life. A woman, to be more precise, who would turn 80 decades from now, and still be longing of walking along some rose-full field of dreams.
The woman with a heart that would probably never know of time.