I Will Take As Many Words As I Want To Write This Story

[u]]Pictures[/u][/b]


[c=#008099]If one has had a chance to age in years as I have it is quite possible that they remember photo albums that housed actual pictures taken from a camera. They are oft assembled haphazardly and yet there are those that assembled them to tell a story; be it a place lost to time, the first year of a new baby's life, a memory they hold dear they wish to remember with fondness, or even of friends loved or lost. One either assembles these neatly, in a cognizant and orderly fashion, or they are skewed at random throughout our residence.

Mine are neatly arranged in my sitting room on a bookshelf that adorns the far left corner of the room and it was to this bookshelf that I pulled off a teal colored album to look at. The album was worn and any newness it had long left the adorning images on the cover, a French/Roman design that my fingers traced again and again over the years.

I knew right where I had wanted to go, page 12. Now it is here I must mention that a photo album is not numbered with page numbers such as a novel or work of poetry. I had made an indentation in this long ago and wrote, with pen "12" on the page as I counted them and deigned that WAS the 12th page!

It was an entire page with pictures of her!!!! Oh how I loved this page! How my heart sang when taking these images into view!

And it is here I would love to say what she meant to me and for a brief period of time what I meant to her....but I can't... I just.... I can't.

I would have to tap into my inner Dostoevsky and write a paragraph 23 lines long with a sentence 8 lines long (or longer!) to do so! By then only fans of classic 19th Russian literature would still be reading so it best I refrain from any such recanting.

I will say though that I have never loved another as I loved her! And that no one has ever effected me on such an deep emotional level as she did. Consider this, dear reader, you are aware I am sure how some can talk to your heart and inspire your being? Have some of you had that experience? Or how some have the innate ability to instantly break through all the walls and defenses we have put up guarding our heart and soul and they then hold our heart dearly in their hand as if it is the most precious thing they have ever held-and love it to no end? In their presence we are vulnerable, yet safe. In that moment, in that time, in that experience, we have just found our heaven! If you can imagine those scenarios having lived them imagine taking the experience much deeper. THAT is what I am talking about.

I wish I had words but I am but a lowly poet. To that degree my story is but a[i]"tale'[/i]. Perhaps one "told by an idiot who is then is heard no more."

This album had 16 pages when new. I added 4 to it to make it 20. I'm sure what is on the other 19 pages is of worth, of value and of substance. However, when I pull this tome it is page 12 I go to. She was my Svengali!

As quickly as she came into my life, she left. And I was never the same after that. I was never the "me" that I was. I am wondering if any of you who may read these ramblings can understand that on a metaphysical level if not a personal one? For I believe that all of us, at some point in lives have our own personal Svengali!

No. I was never the same I thought as I put the teal binded book back on the shelf and shed a silent tear at what once was.

I was so much better for the chance encounter of having her in my life. [/c]

fin