Even though he had died some time ago and before that, changed shapes and was unidentifiable as such, he could still show up in dreams as the very one who had come with all of the elements for fitting all of the receptacles of love inside of her — the first time.
Death by chocolate.
“..to the depth and breadth and height..” Are there better words?
The third or fourth time that he parted from her, but the first very serious parting, she lost so many pounds she became a skeleton of her former self. That was one good thing about it. There might be others. It would be some time before she’d know.
“Sounds like addiction to me” the counselor said when he finally had exhausted his tolerance of listening to her rambling. “You have a lot of anxiety.” Anxiety can feel like a heart has been attacked.
That was really all her ears needed to hear. She went back a couple of times but only because he had asked for so little and his wisdom had been so great. If he hadn’t known those words to shock her heart back into rhythm, she was sure she would have died.
She would likely spend the rest of her life trying to gain the full measure of it’s clear and utter meaning. Her heart had been expanded and there were new receptacles that needed filling.
It is unknown if chocolate is a trigger or a simple warning of a migraine on its way — a thing the body craves from needing. It might even be that someone who has never known chocolate can crave it.
Adulteration by sugar, milk or pesticide might be the difference of it being more devil than a piece of heaven.
“Love is God.”
It is true that until one is touched and filled with the depth and breath and height, there is no real or confident knowing.
“God is love.”
Putting labels on a thing of such complexity seems useless and confining. Is it not better that the context be found by intuition than earthly roundup? He, it, she, they are in the margins she keeps trying to find her way to without help of external influence — not a thing or being.
ALL — alpha and omega are simple letters at the beginning and end of a string of symbols that make words that still need meaning for any real or lasting value — All still constructs of a grand and ever expansive collective conscience.
He was there again last night. She couldn’t get enough as he kept backing up or others he had known before showed up to try to steal him. Not unlike cocaine, unable to fix a thing.
“Sounds like addiction to me” rang again in her head. What lesson wasn’t learned?
Love is just a word too. Only when there are no and not six degrees of separation can the full music of all knowing be known.
Writing Spool 