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Where The Heart Leads

I carry within my heart the scars of past relationships,
furrows of forgotten friends,
marks of false male attitude and posturing.

Hopes and schemes and dreams, once fresh, but now dismantled,
discarded, sifted and retired
to a folder in my breast, named 'lost'.

But still my heart works, still beats, still open,
to a falsehood or a truth,
but now, no longer worn upon my sleeve - it still regales me though,
with all those tragedies and fears.

Clearly, all I've seen as failure,
my spurned heart sees as challenge and experience;
wishes to explore again; the soft sweet taste and scent
and soughing breeze of love.

But knowing as I do, feeling as I will,
remembering as I must.
Do I follow where my heart would lead and damn the consequence, or stay.
Belong or longing?

And as always, I have followed heart, not head,
and from endeavours, all I've left are scars,
What have I learned? What lessons, spurned?

To follow heart and love, in which a mystery of life, of sorts, unfolds.
Would it be madness to embrace this choice or,
bravery personified; stupidity accepted.

Time heals wounds,
but doesn't make a fool, less foolish.
And, alas for me, my heart will always win, and as for that, I fear,
my head will always suffer to remind me.

On TAP (Time, Age, Perfection).

If you were to ask me, I would say between…. ..........27 and 35.
So, that's eight……divide by two……..four….... plus …..that's......thirty-one.
That would be it, 31.
My prime and perfect age.
The time that I would be king of all that I survey; the time that love, lust, debauchery and bacchanalia would reign supreme.
Yeah, if you were to ask me, then that's the age that I think I am, would like to be, am; inside my head.
But not.

It scares me now.

That distance, from where I was, from where I think I am.
Where I am.
24 years.
It's not that I'm not scared of dying or anything, it's not the death thing that scares me.
Although I never really had a death wish, I, conversely didn't have much of a life wish, either.
Easy going, it'll come, you'll get there. But where? And when?
It's just I didn't have a clue.
And if you're clueless, then it doesn't really matter, anyway; I suppose.
But then you were always supposed to have some idea - from birth, from school, from uni, from…………there has to be a point where it kicks in, those poetic veils and scales, lifted from your eyes, that eureka moment.
Twenty four years is a long time; but fifty-five, that's a bit of a shocker.

It's not that I've done nothing.
(That doesn't sound right - double negative, or some such prissy, pretentious twaddle) - is that what I am, is that what I've become; or perhaps I always was, prissy, pretentious, probably - (after that short alliterative guff), then almost definitely.

But I have done 'things' ...just maybe not the right way.
And now, here come the excuses.

At the crossroads of life, I took a wrong turn.
I was lead astray.
There was no-one there to help.
My parents didn't understand me.
No-one understood me.
I didn't know it was loaded.
It's not my gerbil; and no, I don't know how it got there.
It's not fair. It's not my fault. He did it, I didn't do it. She did it, I didn't do it.
Or maybe I did.
Who remembers?

We remember scenarios, keep them there, repeat (ad infinitum), and later on we call them truths - and believe it, because we do, because they're true; or so say the memories.

I was drunk.
I was drugged.
I was unloved.
I was loved too much.
I was………….there's more, many more, but none match how I feel, or what I know.
Failure, and the fear of failure, that's much closer to the truth.

I did once pluck up the courage, and got knocked back.
Stayed there.
Disillusioned.
But 24 years of disillusionment; that's grandiose even by my limited standards.
There, I did it again, I put myself down. That defence mechanism, which I have used and nurtured my whole life…….because……..because I can, because I'd rather hurt myself (gently), than have someone else hurt me (greatly).

That was interesting…….a lot of truth comes out when you write - although you can always edit it out.
But then, what's the point, really? You don't get a chance to edit life, just, sometimes, make amends.
I tend not to make amends. (Am I wrong?)

But then I'm only young……'ish, in my head.
So, many more years to come.
Perhaps, maybe .....or a few.........
Am I really going to waste the rest?

Peaks

Eyes closed.

My head fallen back upon the pillows. Curtains drawn, blinds raised and sliding windows partly open. The scent of something clean and fresh passes through the open pane of glass.
Birdsong, chitter-chatter and the magpie that bathes in the rain-filled flower tub that hides beneath my window, splashes its wings in the water, then flies off towards the white clouds, that patch the bright blue sky, before diving down towards the treeline of the terraced gardens, and the brightly coloured flowers that adorn its green livery.
And I breathe in deeply, chest swelling as I take in all the sounds and scents, sensations.
Tasted in my nostrils, mouth and skin..
Feeling the light, bright, early summer morning through closed lids; with pictures of the day ahead forming in my mind, and then replaced with other images, places, that take me on a journey, through my past and pleasant memories.

Of other times, when a yellow, morning sun, stood high and bright above, and to one side, of snow-capped mountains; and clouds with no thought of releasing their teardrops of rain, from within their cotton wool embrace, inside the backcloth of cerulean skies.
Choughs, red-billed and alpine, buzzards, eagles, vultures, circle, swoop, dive, soar, upon the thermal updrafts, lifting and spreading their wings to catch the current of the air.
Rebeccos perched, precariously, on rocky outcrops in the distance, a balanced wariness, of wolf and bear, their spores and trails and tracks, diminished in the far eyes view.
Green shoots of new life, that pockmarked the landscape, as springtime emerged from its seasonal slumber, wrapped, as it had been, in a soft white winter blanket.

Another time, another season, another lifetime ago, or so it seems.
But in my reverie, of almost transcendental meditation, one memory rises quickly to the fore.
Not cloudless sky, nor plant, nor insect, buzzing at its perfumed core.
A face, a human form, and I am lifted in my memories, my remembering of past and happy times; my doze, with half-smile, tension-lifted being, remembers………..

and smiling, I remove my head from pillows and prepare to face the day.

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