Thursday, July 5, 2018

...as a writer or a man...

Working on edits for D Rose reboot, but also still intending to get Cucariva out there. A quick snippet...


The irony was hardly lost upon him, as a writer or a man, that he had misapprehended entirely his own life story. Remained fixed, in chapter and verse, in the bedrock gospel of his own heart, as the denouement had eased past. She was long gone. Wasn’t it supposed to be easier by now? Wasn’t time supposed to help?

Time.

He was its supplicant and its fool. She had moved on. Long ago, and far. But not time nor reason nor even the most constituent flickers of self-preservation, held a candle to his truth. It wasn’t just that everything reminded him of her; everything was her. She was the love of his life: not until the next one, not until he’d lost her, not contingent upon having her, not contingent upon anything at all. And so time lent not the slightest refuge, but served rather, with each passing moment, to merely strengthen his resolve.

Not to one day win her back, for she was never his to claim. But to simply love her. That if on one far day she called upon him, he would not fail her. He would stand his post. And she would see that he’d been standing it for time immemorial. I have been here all along, he would tell her. And will always. All you need do is reach out your hand, and mine will find it. Stop and hear the wind, and in it, my whisper. Read my words—these words—here, now, and for always—for they are spoken for you, from that heart long since given over. That heart whose inscription is yours, and yours alone. Indelibly, eternally. The book lays open, the page unturning, and even if it should, the next shall read likewise, and all in turn. Live your life, sweet girl, and if you may find it in somewhere within you, take it into your own heart that you are so very much loved…