Monday, December 26, 2011
A Haunting Refrain…
I didn’t realize at the time, but thereafter I began to build a wall around myself, determined not to get hurt again. Yes, I have had a lot of relationships, but somehow there was something always missing. Tonight, I realize it was me that has been missing all these long years. I now see when people get to close I back off or push them away. I always thought this was the way of an artist: to deny themselves emotions and express it within their work. But I was not yet an artist because I was too consumed by my fears to create. I settled and stayed with what was comfortable, often losing myself in the relationships or task at hand. Tonight has become a painful reality check for me as I see how I have insolated myself over the years. Tonight I feel that pain returning to my heart. I feel I have been loved by many but created such pain to most. This year’s reality check has maybe become more then I bargained for as I have lost something that is most dear to me tonight as I feel the repercussions of my year long focused task. Irreparable damage has been done and I must accept the consequences. Have I slipped into a dark abyss without even realizing it, because of my own selfish behaviors? Am I somehow doomed to be alone because I am an artist and need to create? I have changed so much, since those early days, but now I recognize that moment when innocence is lost and how my perception of the world changed and impaired my judgement. How is it we become so unhealthy at the moment of our greatest clarity? A hunting refrain plays through my mind and I suddenly realize a new meaning behind the immortal words of Oscar Wilde:
"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!
Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.
Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die."
From the haunting and moving poem: The Ballad Of Reading Gaol
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