Bliss is a certain kind of curse, isn't it? It's terribly, terribly cruel once you think about it. For one moment, suspended in time, you feel above the clouds, silly, or maybe just serene as a lily. A certain drowsy peacefulness overcomes you like the tides in summer; a special knowing, feeling more like it, that you're exactly where you're supposed to be, and because of that, you're happy. Everything is in it's place and, surprisingly, they're in a place where they favor you and please you. You've eaten your dinner, made love and then gone outside in the ripest of Decembers, where the weather's hotter and sweatier than a cinnamon church in South America, and the stars are gleaming through the city lights, the air warm but refreshing to the soul as you light up a cigarette, lean on a wall and think, inhale, exhale, remember and thank. When you're so fulfilled soul-wise that you truly feel you can thank life. And then, the cigarette ends, the food is digested, the air turns cooler, the eleven o'clock traffic full of bustling teenagers begins and your lover has gone to sleep. Ashes and wine are all that's left. We are ashes and wine, all of us. Only the happiest of us, the best of us, learn how to rekindle the fires and open another bottle of wine. To live life the way it's supposed to be lived-with passion.
But for us, weaker ones, fractured, still unable to make it but trying-bliss can really be a curse sometimes.Labels: writing
POSTED BY little girl blue ON Friday, June 17, 2011 @ 8:45 PM
