Tuesday, June 4, 2013

You Know Who You Are

"Why do you love me?"

I don't love many people, in fact I dislike most; too many times personally burned, jaded beyond the norm. I've become pretty selective in my old age. Oddly enough most of the few I would say I love, I will likely never actually meet, or will never know in any social sense; and yet I can definitively say that I love them, many, deeply.

I think most of those who I'm talking about know how I feel, but may not have a clue as to why. I tend to empathize with people who are a little self effacing day to day, who have the same doubts about their "worth" to others as I. As the few who populate my list that live completely unencumbered by self doubt would need no explanation as to why I love them (Of course I'd love them... who wouldn't?) what follows is aimed to the rest.

"Why do you love me?"


You teach me with your complexity, forcing me to look at other options, better ways, more simple solutions to life's never-ending requirements. Just as I think I've sewn up all the answers to the universe, you toss out another ponderance that I can't help but peruse, another opinion that in my zeal to understand cannot help but make me a better, more complete human being.

You thrill me in your lightheartedness, you play with me as if we'd known each other all our lives. Each time I see someone's dancing over a perfect night out, a favorite sweet, a silly joke, I am duly reminded that tiny pleasures are not to be ignored in spite of my predilection to carry the weight of the world.

You amaze me in your profoundness, feeding me your visions, your dreams, your fears so that I might understand you and of course, myself in turn. Your words are every bit as wise and fascinating as any published author, any sage or bard; as honesty transcends cleverness, and I know you to be only honest with me. And...your trust in my willingness to come to your table with an open mind, is the essence of love.

You entertain me with your fiction, your sarcasm, your endless supply of tomorrows. It's in the act of putting to paper your innermost thought that shows the desire to love and be loved; the gift of your muse reaching to touch mine, to make me smile, to comfort me, to light my darkness, guarantees that I am not alone.

You love me by allowing me a view into your being without fear that I might reject, recoil, react in some way that could cause you pain. And though I have at times overstepped or misunderstood, you have not left me in frustration because you have faith that I will rise above my shortcomings and take whatever time is necessary to make amends and carry on.

You are searching for answers, some that may never come. And in that we are soul mates, bound to each other by the commonality of the human race, devoid of the prattle of prejudice and loathing, strengthened by the need to share kindness and gentility.

Why do I love you? How can I not. Only the blind cannot see your grace, only the deaf cannot hear your passion, only the hopeless are not moved by your innate strength. In spite of who you might think appears in your stead, encumbered by years of sadness and disappointment, loathe to reveal your truths so as to protect and defend against those that would take advantage, I see only you;

The pureness of your actions and lightness of your heart, the wit on your tongue and the soft smile that is firmly set into the beautiful face you project under this ethereal light.

I may never "know" you in any corporeal sense, but what I "do" know has moved me, warmed me and inspired me in a way that I'll never forget. The only thanks I can offer is my love in print. It's why I come back day after day.

I'm sure I missed something, perfectionism has its price; there's never a final edit. If I find another point, I'll be sure to add it somewhere. In the meantime, this is all I know and I mean every word. I don't ply these pages on my own, there is someone walking alongside me every step; and I wanted you to know I noticed.


Perhaps it's as simple as "Because I can". I realize that sounds a bit inane, but then you may not know how hard it is for me to even speak the word love much less profess it, and beyond that, to feel it. Those that know me, know this. You know who you are.

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