He is no longer mine

It has been over a year since I have blogged, and it would not make sense to continue writing without acknowledging one of the major tremors that occurred toward the end of last year. The man I loved most parted ways with me. Going through all my photos over the year, and deciding what to write about had a heaviness attached to it. My memories all had him in each of the frames, and it feels like a heavy burden for me to carry them all on my own and not share them. Maybe it is like a wound that needs to be drained, sharing my sadness to lighten the load somehow. This was one of the last photos I unknowingly took of him and remains one which epitomises him best: a soft and tender soul, with a hint of sadness in his face I foolishly did not see at the time.

Mr Handsome turned and walked away, and I turned to medication. In hindsight a decision that I will never make again, and one which I would not recommend to anyone. At the point where I could no longer distinguish my own thoughts and sensations from one another, I stopped taking the medication and decided on taking a less numbing approach, another Vipassana meditation course (an experience I will share too). Thankfully going again solidified my practice, and if nothing else reminded me the inevitability of change and impermanence. And now as Valentine's Day approaches (the horror among horrors of days stuffed with notions of rampant consumerism) I recall this poem to what love honestly is, neither red roses nor blue violets:

Valentine by Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.

It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.

It promises light

like the careful undressing of love.

Here. 

It will blind you with tears 

like a lover.

It will make your reflection

a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.

Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.

Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,

possessive and faithful

as we are,

for as long as we are.

Take it.

Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring,

if you like.

Lethal.

Its scent will cling to your fingers,

cling to your knife. 

And so I journey on my own from this point. Do wish me luck, and I do hope to write and photograph some new stories and interesting things in the near future. This blog too will change and adapt to something new soon..