Sunset over Malta colors a silver grey sky pale orange. It contrasts significantly with the deep dark blue Mediterranean water at the down side of the horizon. He has left me for now. The love of my life. Like a brilliant golden sun setting behind the thin line dividing dark from light. He leaves me with memories of endless moments. They shine like brilliant sun rays shedding light upon vibrant colors of life. Unveiling it’s essence, basically. As if life is something complete.
I use words to bridge the distance between me and painstaking moments of completeness. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I shouldn’t try to put it into words, expressing individualized cut off fragments of perfectness. Like Muslims shouldn’t picture what is created by Allah. By putting divine creatures into individualized expressions through drawing, painting or picturing anything that is alive and breathing, one takes away the divine spirit of it and one assumes to be capable of recreating what only Allah can create. Beautiful abstract mosaic art is a dear result of the principle. Do words that describe something called love do the same? Does it take away the divine spirit of love? Much like we wouldn’t want to touch perfection at the risk of ruining it. In my case then, I shouldn’t touch it not even with words.
Tomorrow the sun will rise again. I will drink tea in the morning thinking of him. Filling the empty space he left behind with emotions, feelings and thoughts. Weird enough love is as much about perfection as it is not. Those moments of perfection are indeed not to be touched. They can be admired, respected, wished for and dreamed of. However they should be kept pristine. Like crystal clear water should not be contaminated. And then there is love and acts of love. They fill empty gaps. Love completes that which without love would be barren, cold and empty. Like beautifully engineered food, which without love misses the final touch. Love makes up for life’s missed chances. Love turns life around, back into fertile grounds where the cycle of rhythmic growth steadily continues. Love has found me. It took the shape of my American hero. I allowed him and love and therefore life to touch me. As deep and powerful as the big blue sea. And as vulnerable and ephemeral as a mayfly, who has the short life span of one single day. Love touches softly without any pressure felt. Yet mega at the same time, as in Omega, the ultimate letter of the alphabet, finishing up, completing everything that has transpired before. Love is like the sun that rises again and again, facilitating growth, fertility and continuity. Regardless of the depth of the darkest of nights, the sun comes shining again the following morning. Always and forever. The pitch black of the darkest of nights exists merely at the mercy of the purest, virgin white light of day. Sparkling brightness outshines pale stale. The deliverance of a perfect moment is celebrated with effervescent champagne and blinking diamonds reminiscent of the temporary versus the eternal. Love is as light as it is heavy and as complicated as it is loud and clear. Love is life. As much as the continuous cycle of sunsets and new dawns are.