How was your valentine’s?
I had my first single valentine’s day in 9 years. And probably I wouldn’t even think about it if two extremely non-romantic (maybe even anti-romantic?) things didn’t happen to me on that day.
The people who are involved in those situations are probably still alive and might even read this so maybe I will only talk about the more hilarious one.
As per the title, it is related to a love poem.
Well, love is too big of a word, but it was sent to me by someone who I used to date and who I thought, vaguely, I could’ve fallen for if circumstances had been different (very different).
The circumstances were very unfavourable, so I never really let my feelings develop and never told that person about this potential. So hey, if you’re reading this. Nothing better than a one-year-old confession that makes no difference to anyone.
I used to write poetry in Polish and these days I wouldn’t even know where to start. But I still love reading love poems, I love breaking my own heart over and over again and playing its strings to check if they even still exist.
So on 14th February this year, I got a poem about myself from someone who I could’ve loved, never really did, and resented a little for several months. This non-existent love was gaping from the screen, a memory that is no longer shameful but gives me no pleasure and only made me more aware of how hard it is to include someone in your life when it’s already complicated.
However, something that you can do, no matter how convoluted your existence is, is play games with others. You can write about them and see how they react. You can send cryptic messages, pretending that you look somewhere else and giggling inside.
It is almost like real feelings, definitely like a waste of time and energy and a never-ending source of sick entertainment.
I recently read some poems by Dorothy Parker, an American poet who had an unhappy childhood, liked to make fun of everything that hurt her, was leftist and very disillusioned with love, but still half-heartedly hoped she was wrong. Relatable.
Sanctuary
My land is bare of chattering folk;
The clouds are low along the ridges,
And sweet’s the air with curly smoke
From all my burning bridges.
~
The sweet smell of burning bridges might not be necessarily the worst thing that can happen to you.
Sometimes cutting this Hydra’s heads will feel like Heracles’ labour, but the reward will be inner peace. Even if your supposedly romantic day will end up being anti-romantic and just like me, you won’t feel like there is any inspiration to, once again, try and write a love poem.
