THELIFEOFERIC.COM

What does one write about? Love? Pain? Despair? Achievement? Accomplishment? A kiss? A touch? A bruise? A walk? A morning jog? An orgasm? A lunch? A minute? An hour? A day? A life? 

I struggle with what to write about...what to express. At the moment I want to write about Yasmine. I want to write that I miss her. That I am disappointed in how things between us have turned out. I feel as if I have failed Cupid, cracking his arrow during a brisk walk through the Garden of Gethsemane. 

It is funny. When Yasmine and I broke up I didn't hesitate to walk away. I think my shoes were already on before she showed me the way to the door. Months have passed since that time and not once have I sat down to think about what walking out that door meant. Not once did I think about what actions lead to that crossroad.

I embraced being alone - even in the midst of company - because that particular lifestyle was a familiar one. The idea of being an isolated island seemed delicious at the time. If our ship had entered unchartered waters and she didn't want to captain it, I wouldn't force her and I surely wouldn't take the helm. 

"She's not the person I thought she was" was my argument when asked about the breakup. How easy it can be to blame others. In reality, I shoulder as much blame as she does. My poor judgment and lack of effort contributed just as much to our split as anything she could have done. It is only now, in the darkness of a Sunday morning that I think of these things. I think of my faults and mistakes when those thoughts can do little.

Perhaps all could have been solved with a simple conversation. Maybe not. Maybe our relationship was doomed to fail. Maybe I was destined to find myself at this point - writing a catharsis for you to read. Perhaps my failure at love was nothing more than a lesson to share with you. Maybe... 

So again I ask what does one write about? Consequences? Inaction? Romance? Memories? Danger? Mistakes? Love? Anger? Passion? A thought? A dream?

A man reflects, a lover mourns and a poet writes. All that precedes the text is simply a device used to bring us to this moment... a moment where an author dances with discomfort while staring into an abyss of truth... a moment where one looks in the mirror a final time before continuing a lonely walk through morning passages.