ART, LOVE, LIFE
I am Not Your Flower
A letter, from the mountains, to my lover.
I wrote a letter to a man who gave me a book. I fell in love with a man, once, simply because he gave me a book as a gift and it spoke to my soul. I’m like that. We were good friends and I fell in love with him because of a birthday present. I pursued him ardently for some time. He fucked one of my best friends because she had amazing tits. I told him this myself because she did have the best tits I’ve ever seen in real life.
She ditched him. He pursued me. We had a brief relationship that should never have happened. I ended things in a less than honourable fashion. Long story short. A good friendship was ruined. He still won’t accept the third apology. All because of a book.
I had an almost relationship with the woman with great tits some time afterward. Or before (I can’t remember). They were the finest I have seen, to be clear. But she was altogether too feminine for me and things never really took off. We are still distant friends, however. Women can be infinitely more mature about love and life, at times.
Another man gave me some books. Two of which are, officially, now my all-time favourites. But this story is not about either of those two books. Perhaps because they’re that dear to me. It is about the first one that he gave me on the first date we met in-person.
It was “The Little Prince” and there was an inscription, handwritten, inside the cover that read something like, “To my flower on a Star.” I’m not sure this is entirely accurate as the book was borrowed and not returned. I harbour much resentment about this. I don’t value material things and I give money away, but if you do not return a book or a CD (back when they were still a thing) our friendship is in real jeopardy.
I’ve tried to explain this to the person who borrowed it, but it seems that she is secure enough in my love for her, that it has not bothered her enough to find wherever she may have put it. In truth, I love her enough to let it slide. Others have been less fortunate. I guess some would, possibly, say that they were.
The man who gave me “The Little Prince” became my Muse for some years. Our relationship did not withstand the storm of a situation that unfolded outside of us. Nor our own unique fuckedupness. I learned a lot though. About myself. About other human beings. And about letting go.
The letter that follows was sent early on in our relationship. Yet we fought for two more long, passionate, intense years to stay together. Or to let go of each other and ourselves, depending on how you choose to see it.
This letter says it all. Yet, neither of us could hear each other. Still. And we spent more time trying to convince each other to be who we are not. And to be who we were not for each other. I called him my life partner. Now, with greater understanding, I call him my Muse. This is, more accurately, what we were. For each other. As all amazing friendships are.
I would send this letter to anyone that I wanted. Anyone I was curious to get to know better. Anyone I wanted to spend more time with and to get to know myself better with, in return. Anyone I desired to do a bit of The Dance with, or to walk beside with along a bit of The Path.
There aren’t many humans like this around for me nowadays. I’m older, somewhat jaded, and set in my ways now. I find solitude inspiring and an absolute necessity for both creativity and peace of mind. But we all need a Muse. Because too much peace and too much comfort may, I believe, stop the flow of creativity and kill the Magik in full.
Dear [name],
I am not your flower that lives on a star. I will wither and die under a globe and I rarely grumble. Probably not enough.
I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself…
-D.H Lawrence
I am your fox.
My life is very monotonous. I hunt chickens. Men hunt me. All the chickens are just alike, and all men are just alike. And, in consequence, I am a little bored.
But your step is different from all the others.
And here is my secret:
It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
The letter goes on to share thoughts on what we had in common, and what we were unable to agree on. I read it now and am surprised at how much I saw of our inevitable conclusion way back then. And the stuff that we were struggling with as odd, often frightened, awkward humans. There is even a warning I would leave. And why.
This when I promised I would always come back.
I wander. As I wonder. Not into other people’s arms. To wide open spaces and flowing streams. Back to me. And he was intelligent enough to understand this. Still… I promised I would always return. And I meant it.
Life happens. Sometimes we can’t go back. Perhaps, sometimes, we aren’t meant to. And, strangely enough, I say this in the letter as well.
I’ve noticed recently how our unconscious mind talks to us quite clearly. All of the time, in fact. We’re often just aren’t ready to hear it.
I was not, yet, enough of myself to listen to myself… at that time of life either.
Strangely enough, this is what this relationship ended up gifting me with.
Clarity of Vision. And a cementing of Who I Am. In many ways. If not in full. Because there is no destination, right?
Sometimes we learn more when we let go. I think that love is all about letting go, in fact. In whatever form that needs to happen.
To my Outlaw. I am still not your Flower on a Star.
Travel safe. But not so safe that you stop The Flow.
Also.
I told you so ;)
Thanks for your reading time!
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