Dialogues

Sample text from chapter in the book

Dialogue with Love

I learned of you first when I felt your gentle touch, and then I knew of love. Although I have read in books about heroic measures and sacrifices beyond comprehension, all that lovers do, only to get a chance to embrace. Only to garner their faith and glimpse each other’s grace. Tell me, love, whoever you are, is it true that you are grand but, are you also humble and gentle like a summer kiss upon a fair maid? 

Are you grand and small, gentle and tall, yet also dark and seductive? Or are you heroic and swift? Which is it? Love, tell me truthfully, are you for real? I still recall your gentle hands, that gentle embrace which upon my innocent flesh felt like holiness.

Ay, love, seemingly a faded flower on a summer day, gentle yet certain, I am a concoction, sure and certain, constant in my faith, and assuring to the moth that dares the flame. Like a doorway, all inviting into a garden, cool and fresh, set for you to come and rest after a seemingly long journey on a dusty path to nowhere.

Gentle, yes, but not embracing. I am an invitation, gentle and kind, never a call or a command, neither swift nor heroically rushing, always sure and certain of my fate, knowing myself and the final destination of all saints and sinners alike. Now, as your love, I dare to ask: Do you miss me? Are you lonely and afraid? Do you think of me as gone and faded? Am I a wish that only lives in dreams of sorrow, destined for great tragedies and unfulfillable fates of folly? Am I forced to wear costumes soiled by bloody daggers hopelessly piercing hearts that are not brave enough to bear me though heroic enough to submit to death? Who is the hero that cannot bear the pain? And where is the pain, but in a heart full of revenge darkened by hopeless dares?

I do remain gentle and soft, like a gentle blanket with dreams I subdue all nightmares and wait for all tales to tame. What you call love, not an imitation, not even a glimpse or a resemblance of me it contains. What you call love is more an adventure into the wild with heroes who battle unfairness and dragons, and with knights who fight their fate with anger and might. And still, love calmly and gently remains a rose.

Patiently I wait certain of your fate. When the children’s imaginary dragons are slain in their swords fight, the boy and girl alike will grow to see the rose that was always there and still remains. The boy and girl, only in childish games are different, distinguished by their garb and manner, insisting on playing different roles. But upon the gentle hands of their embrace they become one, the patiently waiting grace, the rose. And so with race, forgiveness dawns to brighten their darkest nightmares and their night of sorrows. Upon the sun shining from their hearts, united by grace, all is lost between them, and only their true essence, love, remains.

And so what died in this union was neither lover nor mate. That is not what unites the two, but rather a certain fate that all must return to, the heart that has created them as one.

The hands that touched you, were the gentle messengers, like the wings of an angel that showed you the way. There is no night that can hide, no clutter that can obscure the way to your own heart today. As you recall those hands that cared, your hands thus become the hands that strip your divisions away. And as you have been touched, so will you show another pair of gentle hands how they, too, are wings on a beloved angel.