Life Returning

Harry Hogg
Jul 25, 2017 · 2 min read

I lay on the cold, wet sand contemplating the lap of the waves, thinking of nothing, feeling no pain, near to dead as one can be. With eyes closed, the heart unheard, no temperature to the body, I await life returning. Sausalito was never my home, nor could ever be. Here, in the shadow of Ben More, I’m a hundred miles from the nearest billionaire, therapist, life coach, or anyone who believes my life is fucked up.

I don’t want to end up crazy wild or feel the void in my life is made any greater than it is. I have no idea where you are, where you went, only when. They are no questions I can ask. I can, however, walk on the sand, accepting that my footprints will soon leave no evidence of me being here.

I’ve been backing away from life since you left. I don’t want this loneliness to be the start of some future insanity. What happened has happened, no sorry epitaph. I felt for you, and it was as much as love. I’ve never felt so in touch with anybody. I don’t want to explain it or apologize for it, just that it was something rare. You were a person of rare beauty.

I can’t let you go because I have no desire to let go of this kind of wanting. You are now like the ocean where you live; your love continues to wash over me. I knew back then I could have no secrets from you. I know it’s weak and it’s stupid, but I’ve sailed through life single-handed all these years. When I met you, well, I learned what it was to feel lonely. I’m not lonely anymore, just alone.

I remember I brought your panties home when I was just twenty. Holding them up, trying to work out how they should be on you. Every day since I imagine how they looked.

In truth, I’m more than even you imagined. More than your friends or therapists imagined. Within this time stopped still, between seeing you and the night sky, I realize I still hallucinate with the idea of being in love.

If angels look down tonight, they would want to help me.

So, I live in the land of dragons, a dark, satanic place, full of witches, ruined castles, Vikings and warriors, of lochs, and of fishermen. I still hallucinate in February just as easily as I did in September. Love’s drowsiness still filling my thoughts, carrying me forward from the past, coming from what I thought was always to go on toward forever.

Written by

Harry Hogg is a pseudonym. I was born in London, lived my youth on an island off the west coast of Scotland and now live part time in California.

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