Marriage

This is for the little girl who wrote the last little comment.
Alright, maybe it's for me since I have thoughts that choose not to surrender, so will be looked upon and shot tonight, as the disillusionment overwhelms me.

It all started with an entirely reasonable discussion, which led to my entirely confused self distroying all my future plans and rewriting them, thus possibly revoking all plausible romance.

The discussioned marriage.
That holy, sacred little moment that is meant to last at least "till death do us part," although I respectfully disagree and believe it to be silly to asume something "till death" considering there may be something past "death". (What is death in comparison to love, honestly?!)

Well, now the question arises, why should one marry?
Initially, I believed marriage to be a decision brought about by love. A decision that comes naturally to people wanting to express and share their love. This is probably what love and marriage used to look like before our generation appeared, in the lives of our grandparets and maybe even parents.
Today, marriage is a step before divorce. It is divorce that has become the celebration (of freedom, of single-life, of a lack of partners, of lonliness, suicide, etc.).
Ignore the drama, but let's be honest. The reality before today's marital status has one individual protecting themselves from their own partner. There is no more honest trust and even if there is, then definitely not when money is concerned.
Prenup's have become something considered necessary even. A couple of articles (ah, I even research that which I criticize) state that it is imperative to have a prenup since this is the only manner of protecting ones assets in the case of a divorce and this should be dealt with at least 30 days prior to the "big day" since otherwise, once the divorce is on its way, a late signed prenup may be considered forced. Oh, the horror!

Thus, all of this, has struck up a fabulous ideal within me. I shall never marry (which by default means I shall never have children). Not especially because I don't want to, but because today's definition of marriage does not, under any circumstance, suit me.
I refuse to have a marriage based on paper, where instead of a perfect little baby sleeping softly in my husbands arms, a lawer adorns my marriage.


Is this really too much to ask?
A happy marriage?
A beautiful baby?
A successful marriage?
I will work on it.
I'll work every single day.
I'll never stop.
But I will not go into a situation with the knowledge that it is bound to fail.
That is not an option.
That's simply heartbreak.

Strange

It's strange sometimes,
when you realize how much you love someone.

Each morning you look for their arms around you;
each moment is individually coated with their presense;
each smile is realized with the wish of sharing it with them.

There is the understanding that goes with it too:
the understanding that things will never be perfect,
never satisfactory,
hopefully ok.
It's the simple knowledge that regardless of all the flaws,
all the tedious and difficult moments,
all the normalcy and everyday life,
and all the sadness,
things will be beautiful.
There will be the ideal moments,
big and small,
the simple truth,
and even so much happiness midst the sorrows.
Life with him will be perfect.
And you know it.
Inside.
In the depths of whatever it is hiding within you.
You know you need nothing else,
so long as he stays and loves you.

The Improbable

I lay there, hair strewn all over my face,
the desires slowly extinguishing my mind,
each spark dying out profusely,
as a weakenss was mentioned.
The weakness of being in love.
Weakness.

Contrary to this belief,
I found myself questioning the notion.
Weakness?
Or strength?

I spent years in the mellow and simple belief
that love was in fact a strenght,
support,
simplicity,
reliance,
sheer glee even.

Who knew it to be so selfish,
rough,
difficult,
questionable?

Now I wonder at the truth.
My truth.
Is it reasonable
or simply imagination?
Honest
or just a little hope?

Weakness
or Strength?

"Man can believe in the impossible, but can never believe the improbable."

(Quote by Oscar Wilde.)

A Severe Mercy

This, ladies and gentlemen, is it:

"The failure of love might seem to be caused by hate or boredom or unfaithfulness with a lover; but those were results. First came the creeping separateness: the failure behind the failure... We would have our own standards. And, above all, we would be us-centered, not self-centered. Against creeping separateness we would oppose the great principle of sharing. We saw self as the ultimate danger to love, which it is; we didn't see it as the ultimate evil of hell, which it also is."
(Quote from "A Severe Mercy" by Sheldon Vanauken)

Irony

There is such a vast difference between the world of truth, reality, normal human behaviour (apparently) and that wonderful, inaccurate world of dreams.
One hopes for so many childish little things.
A Princess trapped in a castle by a massive, protective dragon.
A Prince-charming in love with the beauty, wanting only to rescue her from any ill fate.

Although this may be unrealistic in today's world,
I honestly believe that for the most part, girls want to be rescued.
A great misfortune for men, I can imagine such responsibility to be a great burden.

It's the persistent need for love, hope, decency, stability.
It never goes away.
In moments of doubt, it only insists to be noticed more frequently.
I suffer from great moments of doubt.

The expectations one has for men are so incredibly great.
Possibly unfair, which is naturally irrelevant.
One slight mistake can count for so much.
Especially with some unforgiving women.
Those with their ideas, principles, and opinions set in stone.

A great loss for both, the great men and great women, of the world.

Dulcinea

I learned the story of Dulcinea, a character from Miguel de Cervantes' novel, Don Quijote. She does not even appear in the novel, however is the ideal woman, love, beauty imagined by the protagonist, Don Quijote.

Although I have not read the novel myself, I fell upon a simple song, with some of the prettiest, most earnest lyrics. Here are some that moved me the most:


"I dare not gaze full upon thy countenance
Lest I be blinded by beauty. But I implore
Thee - speak once thy name...

I have dreamed thee too long,
Never seen thee or touched thee.
But known thee with all of my heart.
Half a prayer, half a song,
Thou hast always been with me,
Though we have been always apart.

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
I see heaven when I see thee, Dulcinea,
And thy name is like a prayer
An angel whispers... Dulcinea... Dulcinea!

If I reach out to thee,
Do not tremble and shrink
From the touch of my hand on thy hair.
Let my fingers but see
Thou art warm and alive,
And no phantom to fade in the air.

Dulcinea... Dulcinea...
I have sought thee, sung thee,
Dreamed thee, Dulcinea!

Now I've found thee,
And the world shall know thy glory,
Dulcinea... Dulcinea!"


My question is, whether it is only Don Quijote who imagined his love and loved her with all he had, or whether all love is in fact blind...

Cinderella

"One day I'll fly away
Leave all this to yesterday..."

("One Day I'll Fly Away" performed by Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge.)

It's odd how Life works, I seem not to understand it.
Today I cannot quite decide between two very different thoughts:

One, how annoying, difficult, and agitatingly pointless Human existence is.
It depresses and screams to be noticed.
When it is, it leaves but that difficult stain.
A stain, like red wine spilled on a glowing, white carpet, tearing through each bloody seam.
Oddly, only the scar remains, a pink, nervous piece of the past.

Two, where the rays of the sun break through the cloudy skies and emerge blissfully, serenely giving us but a glimpse of the heavens.
Where the single dove screens these skies, soaring towards the better world down South.
Whilst it soars, landing carelessly on the branches of that hollowing tree, it's willows leaving enough space for children to hide and play.
The playful yelling, swinging, and sound of little feet, leaves only that lingering, glistening smile on their Mother's lips...
Heaven.


In reference to the words from Moulin Rouge,
which I believe is possibly the most relevant part of this entry,
the past somehow never leaves us.

As I sit here today, enveloped in my disgusting, self-indulging thoughts, I notice that pattern. I have never gotten past certain matters in my life.
My boyfriend, my darling, asked me a question. Jokingly, smiling, laughing. It hit me horribly.
I discovered that even though, for a single moment, I felt myself relieved a year ago, felt like my secret, shared and discussed, left even unjudged, had been cleared and forgiven. It meant I was free.
I'm not.
My past lingers, regardless of how much was truly my fault.
It keeps following me, resenting my will to eliminate it, crying to be noticed, similarly to that human parasite above.

Secrets.
Everyone has them.
I don't quite think I can share them again.
I hate myself for them, regardless of all my blatant arrogance.

Cinderella will always remain a servant at heart.

Baby Adolf and my Questions

Hitler's First Photograph

by Wislawa Szymborska


And who's this little fellow in his itty-bitty robe?
That's tiny baby Adolf, the Hitler's little boy!
Will he grow up to be an LL.D.?
Or a tenor in Vienna's Opera House?
Whose teensy hand is this, whose little ear and eye and nose?
Whose tummy full of milk, we just don't know:
printer's, doctor's, merchant's, priest's?
Where will those tootsy-wootsies finally wander?
To garden, to school, to an office, to a bride,
maybe to the Burgermeister's daughter?

Precious little angel, mommy's sunshine, honeybun,
while he was being born a year ago,
there was no death of signs on the earth and in the sky:
spring sun, geraniums in windows,
the organ-grinder's music in the yard,
a lucky fortune wrapped in rosy paper,
then just before the labor his mother's fateful dream:
a dove seen in dream means joyful news,
if it is caught, a long-awaited guest will come.
Knock knock, who's there, it's Adolf's heartchen knocking.

A little pacifier, diaper, rattle, bib,
our bouncing boy, thank God and knock on wood, is well,
looks just like his folks, like a kitten in a basket,
like the tots in every other family album.
Shush, let's not start crying, sugar,
the camera will click from under that black hood.

The Klinger Atelier, Grabenstrasse, Braunau,
and Braunau is small but worthy town,
honest businesses, obliging neighbors,
smell of yeast dough, of gray soap.
No one hears howling dogs, or fate's footsteps.
A history teacher loosens his collar
and yawns over homework.



I read this poem in highschool. Back then I simply thought about how ironic life is, what becomes of people, and how ordinary each of our beginnings are.
Today, I cannot believe the sheer guts of life.
How is it, that when one least expects it and even loses all rational hope, a miracle occurs?
How is it, that people ,who least deserve it, have all the luck?
And how is it that I am one of these people?

Confusion.
Questioning.
Happy.

Beautiful

In the words of Izzie of Grey's:

"I'm a pretty girl... He doesn't make me feel like a pretty girl. He makes me feel like me. I think he might know me..."

Just a thought circulating around my mind, uncertain of whether it's even true or just my imagination. Thoughtful day, today: many little ideas, questions, smiles, wonderments.

There is nothing like that exhilerating notion, that what awaits may just be beautiful and that one can even plan for the life ahead.

"Izzie, you did good..."
(Denny)

Called it love...

And so, despite the troubles, questions, and sorrows,
they found love at last.