a short story passed down through the ages

With sexual relationships I feel like I am alone on a sea of broken bones. Or that I walk against a cruel wind seeking shelter and crying.

In life I feel both joy and grief. The grief I carry with me in my backpack. Sometimes it even eats through my bread and I find it hallow when I want it. But my joy is not exactly mine; it is all around me. I find it in the places where I am. It’s really only about being able to commune with the ecstasy of life and share in it. So let us say then, that my sorrow requires patience of me, as every great weight does; and my enthusiasm requires ability, attentiveness and skill.

To be clear, a ‘sexual relationship’ I mean a bond with another where your sex and their play a vital role. We have these all the time don’t we? And if I may tell you so, I sometimes find it hard to process all of it. Bits hang loose and create a mess.

This story is about one such relationship whose smell lingered on with me long after it had ended. It stayed in my hair and clothes from where a soft breeze could bring it. Rather, this story is about how I travelled so far and long to speak to that man again; about how I never found him; and about how one might accept that I shall never be without him.

I still feel a pang in my heart about it but in general I am more peaceful. I have opened my hands and let the sorrow go, drift off with the wind. I have opened a hole in the ground and spoke into it my pain. And now as a result a calmness touches me lightly and it protects me gently from the grip of what is left to happen still.