Can a poet have a broken heart?
I only loved once, but it was deep, and when I realized the object of my affection would never return my feelings, I stopped (that instant) having genuine emotions.
Anything I wrote or said afterwards, any of my lame poetic expressions, were expressions of my former life. This is still true, for the most part, but maybe I’m like the victim of a bomb blast who regains his hearing after years of numbness? I’ll never recover a life like I had while I was in love with that woman, though. That’s certain.
I could have done anything.
Have you ever wanted to go back in time so bad that you prayed for it? Prayed for God to whisk you away down the corridors of history to your body of fifteen years ago, so you might re-live your life and turn events away from the tragic and towards unthinkable pleasures?
The speculative side of me, the philosophical side, the side that’s governed me since I died the love-death, that side of me said God may not even be able to perform that sort of miracle. Or, if He could, He certainly wouldn’t be willing to.
But then I imagined what would happen if He did…and that imagining is what prompted this midnight musing:
I thought of how profoundly sad I would be if God granted that prayer. Some long dormant emotion sprung up in me, weak to be sure, but still there. I would have been terribly sad at the thought that I no longer stood in the same relationship to my sister. Her and I experienced everything together growing up, but now that God granted my selfish prayer, we were forever separated, her always being fifteen years behind me. All her victories, all her achievements, and all the precious memories she’s made for herself in the past fifteen years are gone, swept away and turned into a hypothetical future that now, because of my actions, will no longer exist.
Considering this change for all my relations, and the sadness was intensified 100 fold.
I’ve often thought of how great it would be, and how much better my life would be, if God would rip me from my temporal context and send me back a few years, but tonight was the first time I realized how sad that would be. Trapped forever in a perpetual history where events no longer matter except in anticipation of a future that has left me behind. Stuck in history’s closet.
The “present” truly is a blessing, then. It’s where all the important life happens.
Unfortunately for me, it’s a present without life.