I remember
being in love. It is a distant memory, far from the shores of the ocean that is
my consciousness. It is as though it's from a life that's not my own. Or from a
dream I had long ago, only remembering vague bits and pieces, and questioning
if those remembrances are even real...lips mouthing the words 'I love you' and
arms wrapping me in a familiar embrace...
If I ever
suspect these memories to be false all I have to do is take a look at my
scarred heart. Scarred from when I opened it up, invited someone in, and was
more surprised than a family on Extreme Home Makeovers when that person I
invited in destroys my house as if this were Extreme Home Makeovers. Except in
this version, they leave after the demolition and leave me to pick up the
pieces.
But that was
long ago. I have recovered and have come to terms with the experience. After
all this, I am not afraid to open up as I did before. I will not lock the door
to my heart. I am just looking for the right person to put the welcome mat out
for.—No, not looking. I am waiting. Patiently waiting. Not looking for love or
thinking of it for that matter. Although, at times I feel my train of thought
(riding on top of my stream of consciousness as though Jesus himself was the
conductor) go on unscheduled trips to revisit the idea of love...to keep this
at the forefront of my mind, while I try to keep it on the back burners. Though
love has brought me some pain, I wear my scars as a veteran wears his war
medals, with pride.
A Distant Memory by http://no-ideas-original.blogspot.com/ is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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