Posts Tagged trust

Dearest Ophelia,

Forgive my delayed response; not for lack of trying, but it seemed as if each time I sat to pen my reply, something or someone needed my immediate attention. I’m sure you understand and can relate.

You asked if you are allowed to be this happy…not only are you “allowed,” but you deserve such happiness. Everything in life happens for a reason, of that there can be no doubt. Every path we choose, every road we travel, will eventually lead us to the place we are supposed to be. But it is up to us, to have our eyes open and recognize that place when presented to us. It appears you have done just that.

Yes, Ophelia, there will be times when you feel as if the separation will bring about your undoing, but this will only strengthen your bond and aide your determination in bringing to fruition that day when you are no longer forced to leave each others side; a day, I must say, that has been long in coming.

From the beginning…

How clearly I remember; how I longed to experience that love which you found; how many years and miles I had to travel to find it; and the devastation you felt when it abruptly ended. No words or actions could comfort, or take away the pain that assaulted and threatened to consume. But even then, I did not believe it was over; nor did you. Women’s intuition so finely tuned, at such young ages.

Never second-guess your self, Ophelia; and never let it be said that true love does not overcome and conquer all. I’ll await your reply and be with you every step of your journey; whenever you need or want me there.

In peace and love,
Anastasia

Dearest Ophelia,

It has been so long since we sat and talked. There once was a time; long, long ago, when there was nothing we didn’t share. Two young girls; hearts brimming with hopes, dreams and silly fears, of that which was unknown; much that we only imagined, some truths that even now are difficult to comprehend; but still, here we are; all these years later, reaching out and connecting. Confidences shared, vulnerabilities exposed, trusts forged; and life goes on.

I must confess that I often miss those days of youthful innocence, but treasure the memory of them always. And so it was with abundant respect that I accepted your news of this second chance of which you spoke; with such heartfelt joy that it leapt from the page and struck my own soul.

For I too know about second chances, am well versed in affairs of the heart; and can tell you with complete and utter certainty that soul mates and twin flames do, indeed, exist.

Your happiness is such that you spend every waking moment in a state of euphoria; counting the moments until you can be together again. The wait is agony, yet such sweet suffering it is; for you know what awaits you and how far you have traveled to finally meet at this crossroad once more.

There are times when you fight sleep; unable to bear the pain of such missing, during your hours of slumber; and at others, you cannot wait to rest your head, close your eyes with the memory of him fresh in your mind, the scent of him still lingering; recounting every second spent, ever word spoken, every touch and caress; given and felt; knowing full well that you will find him in your dreams.

Ah, yes, how well I know this love you speak of. Having rejoiced and basked in its eternal promise; suffered and sacrificed to attain that which I needed more than my next breath. Knowing full well that should it ever cease to exist, so would life as I had come to know it. The pain, the torment, the agony and the angst; diffused completely by a single embrace.

But I warn you, dearest Ophelia, that second chances are not for the faint of heart. Most will never know the meaning of true love; cannot fathom that somewhere on this earth there is a twin that completes and makes us whole. And so, if a second chance, by fates hand be granted, you must grasp it with every ounce of your being and be mindful to wrap with ties that bind, but never constrict.

There will be those who scoff and scorn; will bring up past mistakes; of yours, his and those you made together, when the ignorance of youth was all you knew and held you under its wicked spell. Know that such negativity is not given out of love, but is born of pure, unadulterated jealousy. Resentful and loathing of you, are they; because you have found and accepted that which they know not the meaning of.

Take heed, Ophelia, when I tell you that there are those who would rather see you suffer as they, than rejoice and share in your happiness. They may not even be consciously aware of their actions; and so it is up to you to proceed with eyes wide open; armed and ready, to battle for that which your heart does know.

I leave you with my blessing and full support. Go now, to the man of your dreams; the keeper of the key, that fits the lock you fastened tightly around your heart. Trust your intuition, your inner voice; make every moment count and live your life with him well.

In light,
Anastasia

The music strikes a cord, as rain falls steady outside your four doors; and you feel him suddenly, tugging at your soul. Memories come down like raindrops on the windshield; and you realize with gripping certainty, just how close you came to throwing it all away; for a stranger whose specialty was manipulating words; who didn’t just consume, but devoured every morsel; your heart, your soul, your poetry and prose; digging your mind, inspiring your muse, feigning a connection while loving your soul…

He offered up a quote, a less cynical Goethe; about noble men, helpful and good; set apart from every other creature on earth; and while she appreciated the gesture, she found no comfort in the words; for cynical is the heart, having been given and held, then without warning viscously broken and bled; at the hand of a madman with no conscience to speak of.

They met in a little antique shop. She’d just picked up and started examining a brass stamp box when he came up behind her and said, “Best to be careful; things aren’t always what they seem.” She turned slowly, to see who the masculine voice with the slow, sultry drawl belonged to; her heart tripping in her chest as her eyes met his and held. He smiled and reached for the box, “They sold three just like it last week,” took it from her and set it back on the table.

“If you want to hunt for some real treasures there’s a few not to be missed shoppes out along Route 9; plus the drive is a scenic knockout this time of year.” As she was considering him and his bit of advice, he took her by the hand and led her outside; she followed without a word, or a moment’s hesitation.

They spent three days and two nights meandering through the countryside, forests and mountain villages of Vermont, with no cares, no constraints of time and no plan; just digging the countryside and each other. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. His ideals and philosophies sparked her thoughts and imagination like nothing or no one had done before; obviously having mingled within the upper echelon of intelligentsia, yet down to earth, genuine and real; a combination not often found.

His energy was infectious; his touch therapeutic and healing; and his uncanny knowledge of past events and talk of a certain future made her wonder if he weren’t perhaps a wandering mystic Sage from one of the villages they’d passed along the way, as he was well familiar with the area and many secret places contained therein. Just as she was gathering the courage to ask, his demeanor changed, as if someone had flipped a switch and he told her it was time to return.

He was suddenly very silent, but for giving directions that led back to Route 9, until they passed the sign that read, “Welcome to Brattleboro,” and that’s when his dark side emerged. He began talking of death, suicide and the shithole of life, of which no one escapes unscathed. On and on he droned; nothing whatsoever like the man she believed she was coming to know.

He warned her of the sharp bend up ahead and that there would be a large wrought iron gate on the right, just past the strand of oaks. She slowed her speed and pulled into the hidden drive; an elaborately scrolled sign above the gate read, Brattleboro Retreat. She wondered if perhaps he’d changed his mind and decided to stay with her a while longer; as her mind imagined them enjoying a few languid days at what appeared to be an exclusive Vermont Inn.

Such was not the case, as they approached the small building where the guards were posted and she was escorted to a parking area off to the side by one of the guards, as he was physically removed from the car and restrained by the other. “There’s no need to question her, she knows nothing,” she heard him say to the guard, as she demanded to know from the other just what the hell was going on.

She was quickly informed that the gentleman whose company she was in was in fact an escapee. She shot the guard a look of confusion as she shook her head, “You mean a prisoner?” she demanded. “No ma’am; not a prisoner, a resident of the retreat.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she replied. The guard looked at her sympathetically and said, “This is Brattleboro Retreat, ma’am; the Vermont Asylum for the Insane.”

Her heart sank in her chest and a chill crept up her spine as he called out her name and she slowly turned and met his eyes one last time. “I warned you to be careful,” he said with a cynical grin, “Things aren’t always what they seem…..”

Lightening struck and the balance was shifted; not once, but twice, and it all came down to him. He came upon her wandering barefoot in the garden, called out from beyond the shadows; and though she wasn’t able to see him clearly, something rang familiar in his deliberate words and voice, causing her to pause and look in his direction.

Trusting her instincts that continually warrant believing, she invited him in and soon found him worthy; offering a key, so as to come and go as he pleased. And soon he became her own personal Jesus; happy in letting her be her self, tell her stories while filling her head; with crystalline knowledge, beliefs and perceptions that altered her course and left her second-guessing.

An unexplained peace soon settled in her soul; the storm he conjured brewed with intense passion, though the clouds were lined with sadistic cruelty; leaving her desolate and changed forever.

He stood in the doorway, taking in the scene before him; a haunting melody seemingly echoed from nowhere, as the candles cast flickering shadows upon the walls; black tapers in polished brass holders; always black and brass. The smell of incense filling his senses, yet he could not tell from which direction it burned; swirls of invisible smoke wafting; permeating the room.

A room divided by a sheer white veil that hung from the ceiling and fanned out over the floor; the bed clearly visible, illuminated from behind; black satin sheets made for a welcoming sight. He closed the door silently and slowly stepped inside; casting his eyes upon her in the corner, when he heard a muffled cry.

A shard of etched crystal reflecting a flame; the goblet from which she always drank, broken in perfect pieces before him on the floor; a puzzle with one piece missing; the one she now held in her hand; examining closely before the flame.

He spoke but she did not answer; what game was this she was playing. He walked across the room, pushing the veil aside; she turned her attention from the glass and met his gaze with unseeing eyes. “What are you doing,” he asked, as he slowly inched closer; she shook her head and he could see that she was crying. He knelt down before her, in her white satin robe; before he could stop her or even realize what she was doing, she cut with intent, one more time; crying out in agonizing pain.

Pain so deep that the slashes on her flesh meant nothing; a means to remind herself she was still alive, fleeting at best, yet unable to surmise; for darkness had crept in and settled upon her soul; and although she was clearly pleading for help, he was too wrapped in himself to recognize what it meant; she didn’t want him to save her, she just wanted to die.

He stood and loomed over her; a look of disgust splayed over his face, as her insanity had become way too intense; and so without a word, or a second glance in her direction, he turned and left, never to return.

The next one was different, her ticket to ride; through the portal of illusion into the afterlife. She knew when she walked in and saw the picture over his bed; a Goth chick with strings, attached to her ankles and wrists; the puppet master non other, than the Grim Reaper himself.

She knew he would take her there, she hadn’t a doubt; as they raced full throttle from city to town; always under the cover of darkness, as she could no longer tolerate the light. They came close more than once, but fell short every time; in the end the only one he destroyed was him self.

She drifted aimlessly from north to south; touching the lives of all those she encountered; in love or in hate; differing only in disguise. Compromising her self for beliefs and tradition; while trying to maintain some semblance of self; looking for the path to freedom, stumbling each time she believed she’d found redemption.

Then one dark and stormy night, the knock fell upon her door; knowing who stood on the other side before even opening it; she did not hesitate, but flung it open wide; inviting him in to sit for a while.

Beside the fire, fueled by love and understanding, their stories unfolded as if all part of a dream. “Take my hand and walk this way, I’ve seen the dawn of enlightenment; seek shelter with me along the path, against the illusion of life, we are forced to fight.”

His invitation tempting, filled her with hope, but she’d come to the end with no fight left within; she spoke with her eyes as she reached for his hand; he felt the cold steel and understood her master plan.

He did it out of love, because he knew her true soul; although he wanted desperately to walk with her, he understood that she was done. Giving reverence where others had miserably failed, he released her from the bonds of her torturous hell.

He built the pyre and stayed by her side; standing before her with truth in his eyes. He kissed her lips one last time, struck the match and alighted the flame. The road beckoned and the rains finally came, he spoke one final goodbye and went his own way…

His silence is
Deafening
She knows not
What it
Means

Wandering aimlessly
A beauty in
Desolation
Praying for his
Return

This is his
Truth
She accepts and trusts
Willingly
As patiently she
Waits –

His days are grueling, exhausting – mile after mindless mile – with people he wouldn’t look twice at, let alone travel with – and he wakes up hating the world. Knowing exactly what he wants, what needs to be done – to fulfill his life’s calling, leave his mark on the world; attain the success foretold him, yet uncertain in the path that will open the door. And then there she was, waiting at the gate – longing to soothe his anxiety, with a gentle caress of her hand, ease his apprehension with her knowledge of the path – dispel his angst with her undying love, relieve his agony with her sex and lust.

“Walk this way,” she whispered softly – “toward the land of the morning sun – but put on your shades, before taking my hand – lest your eyes get burned while we romp in the sand…”