Propaganda of Love; November 1st 2021
Both of these pieces deal with the attempt at navigating the confusion and grief that sometimes accompanies change; people fading in and out, flowing in and falling back out of. 'Propaganda of Love' was the first official "piece" I had written in the wake of grief I had felt after I split up with my first serious partner. It was a realization that the grief I was feeling weighed so unbelievably heavy because I had so much love to give and it felt like, no one to give it to. I slowly realized that the love I had for my previous partner could- and can- be channeled into essentially everything I do. It couples well with 'November 1st 2021' because both deal with different forms of grief.
Propaganda of Love
I toss the word around like I toss my hair behind my shoulders on a hot day and my casual use of it appears, maybe insincere, even though it is the exact opposite. I have never known a simpler truth than this love I feel during almost every second of the day, flowing through my body, ready to escape and make itself known.
I have so much love to give.
And the stigma surrounding the frequent or repetitive use of this word is heartbreaking to me! It shouldn’t be some guarded secret, only to be whispered in the ear of a newborn from parents overwhelmed by a soul that was pulled, from wherever souls are pulled from, into this small creation, cradled in gentle arms. And of course, the word would be appropriate in this moment, but why should its use be restricted to moments like these?
It is a denial and an insult to the word to refrain from expressing it. It is a contradiction of the definition and contradiction of the very essence of what the word means if you feel love and keep it hidden or left tacit. And of course, there are exceptions, as there are to most things, but think to yourself, what does love mean to you? And, in a platonic sense, what does it mean to love someone? To tell them infrequently? What does it mean to be loved?
Though actions truly are greater than words, as words are limited and language reigns steadfastly over us, both melded together can create a powerful, intoxicating combination. To be loved is one of the greatest feelings on this planet, and furthermore, a primary uniting experience of the human race, as only suffering and love are. The world can often be a dark, scathing experience, so really the point I am attempting to get at is that you should tell the people you love that you love them. Tell them often, and by God, show them too!
It would be a denial of the very word to refrain.
November 1st ,2021
And what do I feel these days?
I feel the weight of being woman
I feel the weight of being able to feel at all
I feel the viscosity of my blood
I feel the weight of reason
I feel the weight of this stone in my hand, the stone you found and I carry around for comfort, but more as a paper weight for these fragile sheets of shaky, nervous words that rest teetering on my lips. The heart of jasper weighs heavy in my hand. Almost as heavy as I imagine my own heart would weigh if I dropped it on a scale. Heart hitting metal with the thud a baby bird hitting the ground would make after a failed first flight. Heartbreakingly heavy. It would bleed all over the scale of justice, I’m sure. How ironic it would be to see my heart being weighed. All mountains and glories and tragedies and loves and prayers and tender thoughts, tender shots from this barrel I can’t seem to stop staring down... It would not matter much if my heart were placed on that scale. It would sink quicker than grief in your stomach. And blood would stain the marble floor.
Ah and hope, my gentle friend, my gentle end.
I see you in the tall grass on the far side of the river, waiting to pull me out when I disappear under the current, only to take me over slowly once I reach your bank. I know you’ll dry me off and wrap me in clothes, build me a fire to sit by, you’ll even sit with me! And together we’ll watch the river rushing by, flowing onward while we wait on a sandy bank for nothing in particular.
I’ve sat with you one too many times. We talk of places further down the river, beautiful, chilling, exquisite places that we do nothing together to move towards, we make no effort to get there. I’ll sit with you here awhile more I think, until I feel ready...
I’ve grown old on this riverbank. The sand and rocks and river grass have grown tired of me pacing over them, waiting for death. You sit idly by my side, but at least I’m not alone- and then I take my last breath. I hear your deep sigh as I inhale for the last time, and fall forward into the current once more.
I left my heart on the scale, and now I watch my inanimate limbs tumble over themselves as I float down the river, causing an ironic ruckus, and I can’t help but laugh.
What’s left of me?
Your heart a paperweight on my lips. How much have I left unspoken? But it wasn’t you that set it down there, it was me.
I find myself in this body again, not the one that was floating lifeless down the river, but one where my limbs dance of their own volition, not of the current’s. It doesn’t dance now though, no, now is not the time to dance. She lies warm and still in the red room behind closed lids, I’m here with her now.
To my right, a red stone rests quietly on the ground, white agate veins stitching themselves across the jasper. I pull the sheets over me and am met with a heat I have not felt... ever, I have never been so warm. The cool air seeps in through the window and brushes my face, kissing me goodnight, and I fall back into that place we used to meet every night. We meet here still, though it’s not a conscious choice. I can feel your presence just as strongly as if you were tucking stray hair behind my ear on a drowsy Tuesday morning. I see an old friend across the river, but I’m warm now, I can feel the sweat beading on my nose and cheeks.
Falling back into the river has never felt this much of a relief, and I feel my heart sink.
