Earth to Ephemera

I am wildly unimpressed with the fickle nature of man.

A man who is not of his word, who lacks intention, who does not follow through unless it is at another’s expense, is not a worthy man. A man subject to his whims is not a reliable friend, lover, or partner and cannot be those things for any woman or person he encounters until he has chosen introspection and integrated this crucial lesson of intentionality into his being. An insincere, insecure, insensitive man is not a safe man. He is not an evil man either, just a careless man.

I refuse to fall into the pitfall of longing for a love unworthy of me and mine. I will not feed a weak-willed man’s ego nor pour into an ever-insatiable cup because it has grown accustomed to outsourcing its fullness.

My love is a renewable resource; yes, I shall never thirst for love as it permeates every facet of my being and is reliable within the hearts of my sisters near and dear to me. Still, I mustn’t give it away so freely. I must make up for the intention my would-be counterparts so desperately lack, for when this love of ours grows tiresome or challenging or achieves its collective capacity, I will be sentenced to feel it all by myself.

I know this puncturing of the most tender part of my heart is a merciful act. I know it, but I cannot feel it just yet. I feel I am being punished for something I did not do. I wish so badly I could remember where my soul floated about before it inhabited this body, and how it came to be enticed by these earthly lessons. Because I damn sure don’t remember signing up for this torture.

But I must have. The unfolding of my life has been so kismet that while I rarely waver in faith, I often waver in gratitude. I know there will be immense gratitude for this very moment eventually. Still, right now, I feel like raising my arms toward the Heavens, falling to the soil beneath me, and writhing in heartwrenching pain as I scream at the sky, “When will my loving suffering be enough? When will I be enough?”

Dramatic, right? But it is how I feel; it is the unseen plague I carry everywhere I go, and I have no choice but to accept my condition or otherwise perish under this intangible yet pressing weight.

So that is right now, and I am fine sitting with these sorry, ugly, heart-palpitating feelings tonight. The only way out is through, so that brings us to this writing. I have been at it for hours now, giving voice to the emotions that feel as if they will tear out of my belly, disemboweling me in the process if I don’t give them the freedom to roam and breathe and say their piece.

My audience is coming to an end. Soon, I will retire to my chambers, where self-pity awaits me, ready to share my bed tonight. I will make space for the two of us and languish in this pain until I drift off into the sweet relief of sleep, of not feeling. In the morning, I will awaken and be alone.

It will be the good kind of alone because I allowed myself to feel this loneliness and this engulfing desire for divine union right now. I know I am brave even to dare to feel it all, never to let an emotion pass me without welcoming it into my home, breaking bread with it, and learning of its origin before sending it on its way with a hand-crafted poem and a kiss.

Wisdom will pay me a visit—days, weeks, months from now. I will sit with God, and together, we will look back on this time with shared clarity. We will laugh at my hysterics and admire the work that came of the artistic inspiration so woefully inspired upon me. This catharsis, I will deem a consolation prize for Heaven’s rejection of my heart’s desires. I will realize that only when my desires become the Divine’s desires will I truly have what I want—when I surrender to what is.

At that moment, I will press my palms together in gratitude for what has passed and the gift of closeness my Beloved has given me through the impaling of my breast and the slicing open of my soft, trusting underbelly. A single moment of awareness with You and all the crying, whining, and brooding will seem silly and feckless.

It does not do to dwell, this I know. But just for tonight, I will wallow in my choking despair.

Love Always,

Dom

A note: Things done without intention do not last, for they are not blessed.