Metaphors

Originally Posted Sunday, December 28, 2013

I just spent an hour writing about last night's visit from one of my friend's ex-girlfriends with whom I had forever been in love.  I fell for her even before I met her.  She was nineteen.  The last time I saw her, she was twenty-one. 

She is now thirty-three.

I then deleted it all.  Forever lost.  For good.

I tried to make it metaphorical and profound, but it was simply jejune. 

That hasn't stopped me from posting in the past, of course. . . but not about this. 

It was a fine night.  She is still a splendid girl.  I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

All things are what they are.  I should stop trying to make them "mean." It is my modernist curse, this existential romanticism.

The life around us goes on.  The life within. . . there is the rub. 

I think I will take a walk.  I haven't moved for days.  It is so easy to sit and watch the day go by.  It is pleasant.  But I am not the cat.  There are things I must do.  I saw my house through a guest's eyes last night, saw what needed to be done.  It is the curse of living alone too much.  I think I must begin to entertain guests.  It will force me from my torpor.  There is much to make right. 

I can't stop writing metaphorically, it seems.  Maybe that is really all there is.  Perhaps I have it backwards.  It may be that we can only make reality from the overarching metaphors with which we live. 

Wouldn't that be something.