Monograph of a Modern Romantic

Part 7

During my days as Barnabus Stinson, I was asked if I ever find myself craving more, at the time the question didn't seem to matter, but of course the wheels in my head love to spin uncontrollably.

I pondered those words deeply, I soon realized how empty and truly alone I was. I realized that my soul had been shattered into a bunch of little pieces, each romantic piece forever belonging to an ex-lover of mine. I still see their faces as I close my eyes each of them haunting me, for I too have inadvertently broken hearts in my time.I'm now left with little of my soul for myself.

At this point I don't know if I'm being dramatic, sensitive, or overly emotional, but I once read that a true artist must embrace his emotions, so I try to embrace it all.

And all I feel is a strong untamable desire for her. A desire for her presence, for she was once warm and sweet, at least to me. It made me feel good to hear her call me babes, it felt like she meant it; I was her babe and she was mine.

Everything felt exciting with her: a late night walk, an early dinner or even a trip to Wonderland, it was all equally exciting with her. As long as we were together nothing else really seemed to matter.

I would have given my all to her if she had done the same, for I wanted it all, her pain, her misery, her hopes and dreams, her love. I wanted her love. I would have embraced it all, for are we not creatures of love, meant to love; we're made out of love, in the act of love, to love, whether it is for the purpose of loving thy father or thy mother or to love something beyond.

Regardless of what our purpose may be on this planet, we must make the best of what little time we have, we must embrace those dearest to us, savoring every bit of time we have with them before it is too late.

Unfortunately I've learned that no matter how much we wish to hold on to something or someone, no matter how dear they may be to us, no matter how much time we have spent with them, we must at times, let go.

Consciously I'm over it, I'm ready to let go (or at least that's what I tell myself). But my subconscious cries for her, plaguing me with nightmares of her, vivid nightmares of us together. Together and Happy.

Happy on a beach, happy on the moon, making love on the lost island-the stars smiling at us as we look back grinning at them in complete unison. I call these constructs nightmares because I wish only for them to be real, but they come to me as fiction; the only art I wish to master.

Fiction, the only thing on this god forsaken planet to ever truly excite me. Other than love. But love and I may never get along. So I must master another art, the art of letting go.

It will be a challenge, for I have always been bad at letting things go, for I often remember things with great vividness.

I often find myself simply wondering; will she remember me the way I remember her? Was I too clingy? Did I do something wrong? Or was it all a preordained notion like the rest them. I'm left with sleepless nights wondering what I could do to get her back. I'm willing to change and allow her games to be played without question.

But instead I'm left feeling the words of Ruth B. "You found somebody new. You left me in the past. I don't even know if our memories will last. But if by chance it doesn't work out. You'll always have a chance. With me in my world."