From: burkhold@next.com (Thomas Burkholder)
Newsgroups: alt.prose,alt.romance
Subject: A little romantic something, for she who is far away
Keywords: romantic
Date: 10 Oct 92 00:38:06 GMT
Followup-To: alt.prose

Hope that this is in line with the purpose of these groups-
-thomas

---
She is far away.  She and I spent only a summer together.  Only a summer  
to discover what we could mean to eachother.  What's a summer?  Four  
months of sunshine, sixteen weeks of thoughtless fun, 112 timeless days  
and endless unforgettable nights - these are the scattered fragments, the  
myriad shards of our courting hearts.  What can I know of her in that  
time, and what of me can she?  I might be but a lonely plaintive sigh in a  
long and colorful memory of her existance.  She might be less than a  
random ripple, a tiny pebble dropped in the muddy puddle that is my life.   
A force to alter and distort the scape of my universe, but leaving in the  
end, no effect but a memory sunk to the bottom of my consciousness.

In what way do we know eachother so well, to communicate so perfectly,  
wordlessly across a thousand miles?  Am I so attuned to the corrugated and  
twisting paths of my love?  Is her mind so often on me, does she regard me  
so well, so frequently in the mind's eye as to make of me a doppleganger  
to be next to her?  What gives rights us to think that we should know so  
much, be so unlike the capricious sprites that surround us?  What?  Was I  
the seven'th's seventh, born under a caul?  She the secretive witch-child  
of some throwback witch of ages past?  Can it be that we are displaced in  
time, in some twilight-zone mobius twist that throws such romantic lovers  
into a time of practicality and decaying greed of the soul?

Surely we are not unique - our farcical comedy of self-delusion.  Our  
lives can only be some ages-old, worn-out deprecation of youthful  
idealism.  Surely our conviction cannot last; it must fail as all such  
idealistic follies fail - in the shattering loss of innocence and the  
bitterness of a heart deadened with defeat.

Yet, the voice of optimistic youth inside me asks, now it must be  
different, this if nothing else is what it is to be young, to believe, to  
allow the power of conviction and love to course through the bloodstream  
of my energetic soul.  If this is to be the harbinger of my lost  
awakening, I must attempt my shining dreams - perchance to fail, but if  
so, to fail with glory, to have gambled it all and lost.  And perchance,  
to win.  For life is not such a two-headed snake, that one can succeed or  
fail on a single happenstance, that a single lost battle should lose me  
the war.

And she, what of my love, can she echo my devotion to our love?  Surely  
she must; for I know that she is my love, and I am hers, and without her I  
would be lost forever.  For her I must be a foolish and desperate lover, a  
devoted prince, and a supportive freind.  I must allow myself to be what I  
am, to permit the rashness of my emotion to come through into thought and  
words.  For those thoughts and words must be louder than the booming walls  
of Valhalla; for she is far away.
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