The Gift Stolen From a Pottery Barn
It is so very early on Christmas morning, I can't sleep. Gawd, I just want this day to be mercifully over with. Get the pain of Christmas behind me. And then endure three more days of isolation torture, and then go home.
Go home to my private little sanctuary of isolated living and make the plans for facing a new year ... To overcome my grief and hurt.
Gawd--I hate this time of the year. Filled with such hope. Emptied of such hope. And the three delusions of western mankind form a conjunction of waning reality ... The myth [defined in the full beauty of its classical sense.] of a savior who exists as a hope... The myth of a santa that exists as the imaginary ... The myth of the true realization and experience of love.
All are the gifts of the imagination. The imaginary reality of the imaginary gifts. And the realization that was thought, was not. That words are not even words. That hopeless is the operative. That an old man can still experience, again, over and over again, the shattering reality of the pre-pubescent child in his discovery of the plausible deniability of things Christmas.
And an underlying shell of cynicism forms ... a defensive chrysalis ... to keep the pain in ... to keep the hurt out.
And the stiff upper lip of lying to the world that things are hunky-dory and one is competent and coping ... while the stolen heart is nowhere to be found.
And the victim of the theft cries from deep within, "Why me? How was it that my heart was stolen?" And the victim can only punish himself ... And both the loss and the subsequent torment become pathologically destructive. And I suffer the pain of an undying death.
And this death does not bring closure, for the perpetrator drags it on and on ... with the false hope of a false hope.
And Christmas will mercifully draw to a close. This little planet will complete its circadian revolution, and the trajectory of its orbit will bring on the brighter days. The Valentine's of stolen hearts will flood the market-stalls in a couple of days. The imaginary will simply morph into perpetuity.
But time will bring healing. The palliative comfort of the passing of time.
And the vapors of another Christmas yet to come will yet coalesce again and then evaporate yet again into the unimaginable.
And to the one who has stolen my heart ... it is, in fact, my heart ... my soul ... my very existence … "You break it...You own it."
But My Man, you didn't steal it.
You didn't steal my heart ... for I willingly gave it to you.
It is my gift to you.
And where ever it is that you have taken it, I know you will be gentle, and tender, and caring of it. For you know that it is all that I can give you. It is me.
Merry Christmas. My Love.
How can I not love you?
The Refectory Manager
Go home to my private little sanctuary of isolated living and make the plans for facing a new year ... To overcome my grief and hurt.
Gawd--I hate this time of the year. Filled with such hope. Emptied of such hope. And the three delusions of western mankind form a conjunction of waning reality ... The myth [defined in the full beauty of its classical sense.] of a savior who exists as a hope... The myth of a santa that exists as the imaginary ... The myth of the true realization and experience of love.
All are the gifts of the imagination. The imaginary reality of the imaginary gifts. And the realization that was thought, was not. That words are not even words. That hopeless is the operative. That an old man can still experience, again, over and over again, the shattering reality of the pre-pubescent child in his discovery of the plausible deniability of things Christmas.
And an underlying shell of cynicism forms ... a defensive chrysalis ... to keep the pain in ... to keep the hurt out.
And the stiff upper lip of lying to the world that things are hunky-dory and one is competent and coping ... while the stolen heart is nowhere to be found.
And the victim of the theft cries from deep within, "Why me? How was it that my heart was stolen?" And the victim can only punish himself ... And both the loss and the subsequent torment become pathologically destructive. And I suffer the pain of an undying death.
And this death does not bring closure, for the perpetrator drags it on and on ... with the false hope of a false hope.
And Christmas will mercifully draw to a close. This little planet will complete its circadian revolution, and the trajectory of its orbit will bring on the brighter days. The Valentine's of stolen hearts will flood the market-stalls in a couple of days. The imaginary will simply morph into perpetuity.
But time will bring healing. The palliative comfort of the passing of time.
And the vapors of another Christmas yet to come will yet coalesce again and then evaporate yet again into the unimaginable.
And to the one who has stolen my heart ... it is, in fact, my heart ... my soul ... my very existence … "You break it...You own it."
But My Man, you didn't steal it.
You didn't steal my heart ... for I willingly gave it to you.
It is my gift to you.
And where ever it is that you have taken it, I know you will be gentle, and tender, and caring of it. For you know that it is all that I can give you. It is me.
Merry Christmas. My Love.
How can I not love you?
The Refectory Manager
posted by The Refectory Manager | 10:36 AM
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