Poetic Reflections: intricacies

Shivering at my desk from cold that cannot be warmed by four sweaters, one of which is pretty thick, I must compose a series of words that say a great deal without saying too much and without being misread because not saying anything could make my head explode. I am a writer who writes, above all, of the sheer lunacy and terrors in the world — as well as the beasties that lurk at the very edges of our gazes, along the unbounded extremities of the imagination. It is the month of hearts for some. Yet a horror author, and a victim of horrors, can take such matters “to heart” and view them in a different light. Without warmth. With a blood-chilled perspective and a sharp-bladed wit that envisions the hazards and crimes committed in the name of Love upon the minefield of Life, where walking on your tiptoes doesn’t do much good.

I have never enjoyed what could be termed a traditionally happy Valentine’s Day, so you’ll have to pardon me now if I choose to take a less cheerful slant on this tradition of exchanging hearts. Too many unkind things are done “out of love”. There are numerous examples of supposedly caring persons who harm children, women, men, and animals. What’s with all the hurting?

I wish that on Valentine’s Day we could truly have a day of love where nobody gets hurt. Wouldn’t that be grand? Wouldn’t it be nice if everyone just kind of woke up and decided to be good to everybody else? As humans we are capable. It is a conscious choice.

The cold burns my skin. Cloaked in a blanket, I continue to type as a figurative frost surrounds me like a tomb-yard brume. It’s February outside. In here it is just another day on the rollercoaster track of existence. Our ups and downs define us when we acknowledge them. Ignored or lived without reflection, they pass then fade and are forgot. Sometimes that’s best. And sometimes it’s not. Sometimes that which we survive needs to define us, in part. Too often it is our mistakes and failures that determine how we are perceived and even, to a degree, our Fate.

Sometimes we have to write, or dance, or wail. Sometimes it is a memory that assails, reaching out of the past, clawing like a handful of bones from the grave. Maybe it’s an incident, or a chain of them. If you are cold like me, you understand. The only way to thaw is this: to release that which wounds, that knife through the heart.

It isn’t all black and white, or a single shade of gray. Sometimes it’s the intricacies we miss. Those little details added up or taken alone that can make a world of difference in what we thought was said or done. And then as time moves forward and confusion leads to silence, the moment can be past. Slipped through our fingers. Will it ever come again?

It might be a set of circumstances. A string of dismal luck. There could be other factors, other parties, an absence of trust or honesty, an array of causes and effects . . . all leading to the same conclusion. A bloody heart on Valentine’s.

Intricacies are like slivers of broken crystal, as fine as threads of fiberglass. They can slice you to ribbons if you don’t see them first. They can penetrate the lungs, the heart, the soul. They may blind you or invade your brain, carve it into confetti-sized shreds. And then the monsters come to gobble what remains, devouring the tattered gushing hearts that lie exposed.

Do not be surprised if they come for you.

Love without understanding will lead to misunderstanding. Guard well your feelings, your affections. And heed those intricacies. If you can.