I'm an old book on a dusty shelf
Unused, unchanging; I hate myself
And the next day after that is even more depressing than the one before. And surprisingly more chaotic. Twirling and dancing and singing. All with a pen. Now blue, then black; the time before dark, this time light. When does it end? When will it?? I just see scribbles. It is the pen that writes. I hold onto it. It courses by, ringing its loud alarm at me now and then. This gift of inspiration. And when I hear the chimes and the tintinnabulation I arise from my hibernation, slave to the rhythm of the pen.
It wrote this, the other day. An essay. Prosaic.
My First Romance
Is romance so easily understood that we can justify our case for our first romance, or is romance an enigma never fully understood by even the most romantic? Who are we to say, "this was our first romance;" is not defining such a complex and simple thing an act of futility in itself? But I presume I can write about the most captivating, the earliest memorable, and the longest lasting romance of my short, unimportant life...
You can understand her beauty only with your own eyes. I have tried to capture it in words for ages, and have come to accept my inability to accomplish it to perfection. No matter how delicately, how fully I describe her, with what detail could I pen the endless beauty of that smile, or capture those eyes, or display that hair? If I started talking about her delicate nose, ever so perfect, or about the freckle adorning it, when shall I end? What of her tender lips, her piercing persona. Fail not the words to express beauty in such glorious personification? Why, if Helen were still alive, she would have been jealous!
I knew her since youth. Very simple lives we lived, innocent, both sharing a village in the Middle East amidst snowy mountain chains and an ever changing Mediterranean. At first were we friends, but never did she strike me with much awe or impress me and impress in me her simple delicacy and beauty. I was too young for romance. And Romance was busy with those foolish enough to love. She spent her time as she wished, I spent my time with complete freedom as well. We were free - but alone.
But I grew up, and quite coincidentally, as did she. She grew more beautiful. I watched with wonder. She became the goddess of beauty that I fail to describe. I became fascinated. Days came and went and my fancy turned to wonder, my wonder transformed into questions, my questions to discussions with her, spawning the romance.
I became foolish. I'd wake up to Romance and sleep with Romance. All day romantic thoughts fill my head. And on the rare occasion that I remember my dreams, she is in them. It is mutual. It is love.
And so, my romance, this "first" of romances, could arguably be considered the only one. And hopefully thus shall it remain.
Adonis
{kwoo§hie}* said...
wafaa said...
as long as the pen goes on writing......
said...
Hey... I don't know you, and you don't know me, but I gotta say you've got a real passion for writing, and you write well... really well...
Adonis said...
Thanks for the complement, Ous. Maybe we could work on changing not knowing each other...
Adonis said...
{kwoo§hie}* said...
got it right the second time ;) the first one is correct spelling for the term used in maths. oh, you make me so 180 degrees...
ous, this is ado, my cousin, also the cofounder of our fotp (fellowship of the poem) :P ado, this is ous, from the shabeebeh in lubnan. ask him about his story.
Adonis said...
Ous, welcome. Care to share your story?
Christian said...
http://photos3.blogger.com/img/192/1295/1024/IMG_7967.jpg