[[Author's Note: I realize that many of the words I've chosen here are what many would call "five-dollar" words, or whatever; that these words are (perhaps) TOO "high brow" and could get in the way of the reader's comprehension and enjoyment. I understand this. I, personally, LOVE the words I have going here and I completely follow the story and have VERY carefully chosen each and every word. I've also strived to not repeat adjectives, nouns, and many verbs at all, even in variation. This is "my" kind of writing! I personally refer to this piece as "SKOSE" (rhyming with "prose") And so, please don't feel like you have to chide me for 'trying too hard,' because I've tried very hard to achieve the imagery I have here. There will be more...I'm just not sure when!]]
Some Kind of Something Else
“At a loss for words” rings too cliché a phrase to describe your bewilderment at the falling of fate, as it were, which had brought you to that place, those circumstances, that point in your life. And yet, however trite the idiom, those were precisely the words appropriate to express your inability to vocalize a reasonable explanation clarifying the turn of events leading up to that very moment in which you found yourself. Ironic enough, those very words, which represented your finest capacity at elucidation, were tenuous at best; and still there you were in the moment…speechless…thunderstruck with emotions you then knew were the inexplicable undulations of complete and utter delight.
Here was a peculiar mystery to which you now found yourself guest of honor. You laid between what had recently transpired, and that which soon would evolve…a facet of your self still clinging to the moments and memory of your previous endeavors. And there you were; savoring the singularity of the encounter, while in that same instant, you breathlessly yearned with a rare combination of anticipation and apprehension—anticipation of excruciating pleasure certain to be dealt upon you, to surpass that to which you had been privy beforehand, and apprehension born of uncertainty of your own strength and ability to cope with the brilliant ecstasy soon to be wrought upon you.
In that momentary lull…that transitory sigh…that ephemeral sojourn during a stationary journey into which you couldn’t recall first having ventured, something in your subconscious advised you to recuperate as the taxation on your energies, your wiser inner self whispered to your barely lucid awareness, had scarcely been exploited. And now your inner voice cautioned that the former relentlessness that captivated you would shortly whisk you to the very threshold of your faculties, once again, and dance you along a precipice rarely walked in most lifetimes.
Somehow, through the wispy veils of rapture, which at that moment draped your bliss-enshrouded mind, that subliminal counsel did register with your senses. Yes, from a seemingly far-away place your foggy reasoning concluded as long as the significance of the reality of the experience allowed, you would regain what strength you could…for you knew the ascent would be of great duration. You knew, despite intermittent, glorious plateaus stepping toward a distant summit of unmatched grandeur, your mere physicality would require every reserve of energy your body might bring forth. And with that intuitive resolution, your subdued musings were yet again visited by the echoes of your unimpaired moans and liberated sighs; quickened by an impossibly precise, insightful touch…you savored the residual memory, looking forward to subsequent episodes.
(Beginning of a Voyage)
The advent fusing of reality and fantasy—the precise moment—when the actuality of where you daily live wandered onto the path leading you to another realm awakened only by those in dreaming was, in retrospect, as undefined as the point where the sun meets the horizon, on the sea at dusk; the two melting inseparably together. The freshness of the residue of feeling argued your marriage of daydreams-not-dared-entertained to being was but a moment so current by regarding said instant as past seemed practically absurd. However, the faintness implied an introduction made so long ago, recollection of a previous existence so unacquainted was equally unthinkable. And thus, the sublimity of the resultant exhilaration and joy, tempered with the most exquisite glow of peace completed the harbor of your honest surrender—a haven in which you drifted under the navigation of a guardian lover.
And therein lie yet another mystery that would later render bewilderment equal to the genesis of each of these love vignettes: the perfect meshing of circumstance made up of time, place, and coincidence with celestial providence; for it surely could be explicated in no other manner appealing merely to the empirical mind. What other rendering could orchestrate such a prearranged meeting of two souls so reciprocally mirrored that may very well induce astonished deference from all other-worldly hosts, and to evoke shamed envy from the greatest romantic minds, eclipsing, with import, all preceding, classic, legendary sagas of passion unfeigned or godly. And were it not for the full sensory confirmation of its verity, this, your own implausible account, might likely be discharged as preposterous fantasy, and would apt be regarded, were your tale penned into the annals of the universe after your departing mortality.
Reflecting on these truths of your own sentencing at hand into the chronicles of romantic fools, barely rippled the surface of concern deep within your subconscious, as such, heretofore trepidations had been almost divinely calmed by the indelible authenticity of these very events; and, at any precise moment, you would be hard-pressed to feign any degree of conviction [that] said events had not left some sort of measurable, discernible mark on your flesh. The most fleeting glance upon your visage—whether your own reflection or even that of a mere stranger in passing—would instantaneously plant conviction in the heart of said beholder you had indeed undergone some type of soul-changing conversion. Such is the transcendent position of that individual who has experienced, first hand, things commonly believed miraculous or implausible.
Thusly converted from doubtful cynic to ardent disciple of impossible-occurrences-made-manifest-in-defiance-of-rarity, you had awakened to a more resolute likeness of yourself…reborn as the embodiment of testator to the veracity of the fantastic made real; so transformed, you were poised to defend the unchallenged truth now illuminating your transfigured countenance.
And so, now spared persecutory skepticism—whether from your own evocative mists of distrust having left their lingering trace, or the glare, sneer, or jibe of invidious outsiders—at your transcendently blessed receiving of joyous splendor, you muster untapped reserves, secreted in the depths of your core, plenteous resolve springing up to replenish you with a seemingly inexhaustible resilience in the face of tenacious, physical trial, and an insatiable hunger for that fruit unequaled in its savor, and sublimely addictive in its appeal.
The decidedly mundane series of events that brought you and your suitor together now appear, in hindsight, either orchestrated or divinely guided. The introduction began as what impressed you then as a chance meeting in the shadowy, rear corridors of a turn-of-the-century library robbed of sufficient reading light. Your simultaneous, initial sighting of one-another occurred, oddly enough, in the oldest wing of the structure where you half expected to encounter Civil War apparitions or some ghastly attendant sentenced to those dreadful passageways hedged in by impassable columns remarkable in their density and number.
Skyscrapers of dusty volumes, plethoric in sundry themes, as undisturbed as a lost civilization crying a silent plea for rediscovery and liberation from obsolescence, shrouded the aisles. Those moldy, bound pages exuded an ominous gloom rank with musky, decades-old water damage imprisoned by the vault of forgotten literary works and antiquated textbooks. This virtually tangible and looming atmosphere nudged you like a presence that seemed to roam the maze of manuscripts. Had you no original intent to venture into such an eerie clime, the tomblike setting you would have surely visited only in a nightmare. No more spectacular irony could exist, you then surmised, upon your encounter, with not some demonic ghoul or sociopath lying in wait to abduct you into irretrievably dark recesses somehow existing beyond the walls of that antique edifice, but rather a kindred soul that projected an instantly calming effect, which soon gave way to aroused provocation.
Considering the countless times, over the years, you have pondered the nearly surreal conditions under which the two of you met, such reflections have always caused you to marvel at the serendipitous incongruity of your introduction, even prompting you—at odd times—to suspect elaborate machinations devised to ensure your eventual acquaintance. Nevertheless and by the same token, those very bizarre circumstances that staged your union have always appeared, in your mind, every bit as fitting as they were ironic. And how fortuitous indeed your life’s greatest paradox would, in due course, mold its greater meaning.
(to be continued…)