Raw Ruin’s Resurrection

Illumination, Photo by BradensEye featuring John Lennon

Within every crippling encounter exists an opportunity for rebirth. As a theme of squashing obliviousness (which lends itself to recklessness operating with zero boundaries), we may astonish ourselves instead with swaths of captivating immersion in decency. We clock another’s talent with guilt and shame, hiding behind repetitively manipulative dialogue about how they’re wrecked with malaise, tired of being Eeyore, and require your patience in stringing you along to stall weirdness or save access inside your bedroom/loins. No matter the truthful opportunities you vulnerably provided for them to come clean if there was another’s back they were tracing with their fingers, a different mouth they planted their lips upon, or others legs they were spreading to tangle with their own. Insert raw ruin’s resurrection as the oracle’s oath you should be soused in willingly. Interpretations of our past (immediate to historic) are rarely wholly accurate. To see whatever happened as it actually was involves so many arcs of opinion. With all of the possible voluntary viewpoints, what we can bring forth is punishment or forgiveness.

Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavor. ~Truman Capote

Mistakes don’t ever leave us. They stay close aiming to hold us at bay. And when we fail to remember the lessons they rear their ugly pain so starkly you can’t miss the refresher course. You could have seen the Petri dish for what it was in the beginning if you’d cared about how quickly some other woman you didn’t know was let loose to allow room for you. Though maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she stayed on. Maybe the lies weren’t small and there were bigger COVID stakes you should have smelled compared to tasting the game you’d played ages ago you thought it was as far off in space as NEOWISE. The difference isn’t how much honor you bring to a table. If someone wants to fake it with you, ignore your words, deny your sacred space, all or partially in the blame of their hurt, you simply can’t stop their creative ability to use you. But, I have just reformed the moral’s timeline to remove the punch from the Kool-Aid to myself. Weaning is an important improvement thing to navigate. I’m riding that wake currently, as often as the routine in oceans flows.

Erupting with resolve can be just what the doctor ordered. I am living on a volcanic island, after all. (If you’re ever having a hard time connecting to the pieces of yourself you must convert, there’s nothing better than getting as close to Mother Nature’s core roots in whatever manner is closest that you’re able.) I don’t need beer, a shot of Disaronno, nor or a perverse bucket list to add notches on your belt of how broken you are giving yourself vasectomy license to have sex with too many saintly feminine souls thinking it will repair your agony. It’s exhausting sleeping with clichés. How many women does a man have to f*ck before he’s woke? You inflict the same thing on a lengthy string of females back to back that you say that one she did to you. There’s never been sense in reaping rotten sowing. So, go on, take another gulp of the next in line. Pretend she’ll fill the void that only you will ever be able to rectify. Whenever you see a state of bewilderment please note it’s complete bollocks. If you ever hovered with the wisdom of awe round my freckles, sun spots, or scars long enough you’d understand.

Softly smile, I know she must be kind
When I look in her eyes…
She’s giving me excitations ~
The Beach Boys, Good Vibrations

Your loss is my sun-bleached blonde mode of radiant distinction attracting dragonflies and surfers’ eyes. For each barefoot in the buff evening we twisted limbs trading conversation to flesh I confess I let myself envision how blessed was your potential. But you had more than one mooring. Always with a foot ready to be out the door, reluctant to initiate or meet my vulnerability at your core. I wasn’t trying to pin you down too soon. I only ever demanded the respect of honesty. Ergo, I won’t (don’t want to) ever forget him (nor, any of them). There’s too much they’ve offered every… single… learning loop. Turbulently victorious tokens who’ve carved deeper angles of my curves, which a real man will triumphantly covet one day. The one who’ll think he’s winning every time he’s near me. I wish to plan desirously occasional afternoon romps between our work commitments as deliciously looked forward to as waking to nest beneath our bed sheets or grab nookie behind the sailing shed as easily as a Dark ‘n Stormy compliments a race. To feel he craves my everything like some do with their cheap Costco Montepulciano Italian red wine. I deserve to be devoured thoroughly for all of my shimmy, spectacularly stupendous traits.

You can have your misery and I’ll keep my integrity. This spin took less than three months. It used to take me almost a decade in some cases. Mostly, these latter years, it’s taken about three months before the knowledge fries so flamboyantly there’s no missing the final clarity regarding my ferocious attempts with connection. Your classic smile can maintain a savagely lustful stand. Yet, it’s no match for all I’ll muster launching succulent strides of resilience. My stimuli are the untamed electricity of the wilds. I salute my balance equal to my ability to preserve treading through blur stains as hypnotizing as you. This is the story of a heart splayed wide open and played. It’s also the tale of a valiant person waking stronger, walking taller, winding a path of caustic collisions with others daring to watch me stumble and like it. I fearlessly ride the waves of saltwater in the vein of each stroke of your hair I softly slid my hands through or clutched in a passionate embrace. Show up unashamed to brazenly love with all your sunshine swagger and trust your gut when it tells you to let go.

May the only thing you ration is the amount of time you permit suffering to take up space with all of your graceful grit.

LOVER of life. Especially people, places, philanthropy and photography.

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