Although much was utterly vague and ambiguous, I instigated to question the romantic curse of old. How we can so easily find the fruits of love, nevertheless, easily suffer their loss like the feeble minded. Was there not one in the 7 billion breathing souls whose heart beat solely for me? With my delicate affection forever exposed to the harshness of the wind, everyone I loved seemed to evaporate much faster than boiling water.
Love was not meant to last for my kind. Always preordained and intended to be blazing; but yet passing. I now accepted it and as a result: embarked on the one thing I could – to bury myself in my work. I wrote fairytale endings but deep in my sleep I understood that happily ever-after only happened in tales. In real life, love, if any, was time’s fool.
Although the inhabitants associated with my circle of life did not notice, as I always tried to wear a few smiles so that the reflection on the mirror did not seem queer. Deep down, I was awfully damaged and broken beyond repair: worse, I had given up on the one we live to find. I could not help but feel my aloneness. I was the master and conqueror of empty space; of nothingness.
On the other part of the world, beyond the arc-shaped mountains and the blue colored sea, was Violet. I durably believed that she was the greatest poet of our time. I fell in love with her use of words – the passion that lived and breathed within her poems. Somehow, although I failed to find the most defined words to explain it I felt connected to her through cosmic strings of an outlandish nature; the kind of love that can only be described by the mathematical ingenuity of those most astute among us.
Violet was an American poet. All her life she never felt an inkling of that feeling we all yearn for: that of unconditional belonging. In the other part of the world, there I was – a broken-hearted romantic writer. The last true romantic wasting away like rusting steel in acidic rain tired of his heart being tormented by wolves with blood-thirsty teeth.
I had given myself to random women and random types of drinks. Little was I aware that Violet fancied my written works greatly. The very first communication we shared was a beautifully crafted email she sent – with the extinction of letters in our age only a few of those still linger. She was seeking permission to use one of my stories in her upcoming lecture.
The world was rapidly changing. Some of us – dinosaurs among humans– were barely keeping up with the daily advancements in this technological era. It made it effortless and an unadorned task to share words through the gulf and vast vacuum that separated us. Words in bits of code soon altered to evolve into a more personal form. She gazed upon my beloved Sunnyside in the pictures that I transmitted to her. I wandered of the culture and night life of New York City in the images she lovingly shared. As time progressed, Violet became the reason I held on to this thin rope of life. To be the last candle light in the windy winter rain I was embraced in.
Till today I cannot tell you how she arrived at the idea of coming to South Africa. Whether it was to see me or the landscape it remains a mystery. What she told me was this: “an unnatural form of gravity has always pulled and propelled me to the south or perhaps more specifically, to you”. It is written in the ticking laws of the universe that all time shall pass thus the day came, the one we’d been waiting, for all the days of our lives. I remember it having no imperfections. There were neither clouds crying for rain nor angry wind longing to howl; only fair sky and silent wind. While I stood waiting at the airport I did not know whether I was to shake her hand or embrace her tenderly when she came.
I was not a man prone to nervousness but on the day of Violet’s arrival all kinds of anxieties were making a mockery of me. It was as if I knew that something extraordinary was about to happen. My nervousness quickly took a sharp turn to the darkness when news reached my ear, that there was rough turbulence in the skies. The plane Violet boarded was buried in the heart of this turbulent storm. I could only imagine the panic, the horror and the uncertainty that she now faced.
Hours passed, only news which persuaded the ear to cry came forth. I stared at my distant, serene and blue sky. Then without a warning or a whisper, it violently began to change: swirling winds and dark clouds hid flashes of light. It was but a diminutive glimpse of what Violet was embraced in.
In that hellish weather, that threatened to take my last breath of air and shred of hope, again I became keenly aware of my aloneness, my cheerless forlorn. For the first time in many faithless years, I kneeled and believed in the man in the sky. All his teachings, I begged and implored him just this once to gather my words in his ear and deliver her to my shores.
Turning back with almost teary eyes there she was. I can say a lot about how I came to be. How I took my first fresh breath of air. What more can I say? Above and beyond that the first glance upon her peeking beautiful face and long wavering hair gave me my first breath of life. It was evident in her smile and rushing open arms that a handshake would not suffice. She was shaking like a leaf that was intimidated by the wind. Her eyes were wild and sad, although still gorgeous in the presence of sadness. She held me as if holding on to a log in the vast blue sea, one that either held life or death. It was then when I knew that if she had not travelled immeasurable distances and raging storms to find me. I would have found her.
It was revealed in her touch, speech and thoughts. That she was the one I’d wait for countless centuries, and boundless eternity for. Violet was my kind – a romantic. My aloneness was now but a thing of ancient times. Two romantics in what she called a foreign land. It did not come as a surprise when after looking around; she said in soft sigh, “I am home”. Following her words, the clouds timidly cleared with the colors of the sun peaking in the sky. I could be wrong, but the sun shined a bit brighter and the sky had a stunning blue that I had never seen before. Yet in all this, my Violet’s sight was worth a million skies, suns and lights.
During dinner we couldn’t wait to be absorbed in each other’s anticipated sentiments. I was fascinated by her every word. Even the silences between her words fascinated me. She asked why I had stopped writing. It was worse than sin to her. I found words to convey the curse I was carrying. Soon thereafter – with her face lighting up the dull walls of the room – she said, “You should write of about it; at least your last words; your final gift to bestow to the earth.” Together, reader and writer, we spent continued months writing the last romantic dreamer. With each word I wrote; each word she read, a thing one can never take; a thing I cannot explain; was everlastingly present between us the whole time.
I soon realized that all along my list of loves where preparing me for her. Fortunate to take a leap of faith; Fiona to see more than what the eye can see; Helen to expect the unexpected; the list is endless. I witnessed it in her eye and experienced it in the passing wind; that one after the other, of my dear loves were building bridges and tunnels for me to find her... All the suffering and pain so I could appreciate her; temporary love, so I may find eternity within her.
At last we could now breathe having had found the one we were meant to find. With all my past afflictions and tears behind me I realized that there was no truth in cynical statements such as how love was designed to bring pain. Being with her was more effortless than breathing, less demanding than listening to soft music, or the pleasant sight of rare painting on eye. Thus I carved in stone the eleventh commandment which the creator so diligently forgot, that ALL LOVE WAS MADE FOR US.
In my time I have seen brilliant stars in the dazzling night sky; awed at the beauty of changing colors of the sunset; but in the entirety of the creator’s work, I believe her to be his greatest work. And if there comes a day to wander about what had happened to us, gaze upon the brown earth and the tender blue sky… that is where we live and die. That is where you will find the last of the romantic kind.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends