Love?

April 5, 2017

 

 

Love? With a question mark, alluding to the nuisances and intricacies of make love to a soulmate.  Free time in a long time overdue had allowed five friends to catch-up together, and fifteen years in its fair to say conversations have hollered the revolution of aspirations, from university, to considerations along the way, and fifteen years later, in a restaurant where all of us became critical restaurateurs, barely above the loudness of the music; of which any restaurant would be foolish to subject their customers to shout at each other, just to be heard, never mind the very Caribbean dish marinated in a sweet ‘n’ sour sauce, the conversation which took precedence was relationships aspiring for love, or something of that nature nearly impossible to quantify.  

 

 

Thus the layers, of Love?  And we digressed, because the essence of the conversation spoke of other things, unbeknown it was a conversation about the lack thereof, and all these other things that love would necessitate, as to be complete, thus we talked one’s reason for love, one’s perception of feel affection for, what are the right reasons for wanting to create a love to be devoted to?  What are the wrong reasons, considering the race to roll out the clockwork 9-to-5, with a regularity that condones nothing but the efficiency it takes to afford these bills, and all these things, and still hold intimate aspirations dear, it was clear whether the question of love ever being enough, was a question we all asked and didn’t hear a damn thing, and like the music too loud so bloody did.  

 

This was the nature of the reflection, the day after thought riding the Overground on the south-side of London, the sky has never been this shade of blue, the view is new-fangled, and thinking be recollecting on what’s been relevant another week gone by, and while it was fair to say another week gone by was as if perception is used to the shegree, on behalf of everybody trying to do them, that life has ever known, there was no adventure of love in the conversation last night, no for love’s sake, and discussing the unexplainable, or at the very least the mystifying, cryptic consideration was like weighing up an idea with vague sense, every suggestion sounding like an oxymoron, and for the reason that when any relationship of love, between people often finds itself rooted on the emotional high that has one speaking the sound of their 16th chapel, illustrating even the depth of love lineage, according to the modern-day flipside it’s important to consider whether he, or she, has a good career, and whether their family came from good stock, and whether bank balances, professional reputes and biological clocks were all of good standing, allowing for the way of the land, all well and good when attention to details is considering life and children and property to own, yet the subject of love, cocooned by all the other things that the vogue dictates, all the suggestions spoke of love as if it would never be the only thing, when crippled conscience knows it’s the only thing, not according to the nature of contemporary today.  

 

Talking about everything else, under the impression conversation spoke these things, when it was love and the communal lack thereof, logic seems to have orchestrated this collective bonfire dance around the obvious bush, what a lot of people do now, and irate by now with the sweet ‘n’ sour on Jamaican escovitch fish, and the monetary focus, and the sexual deviances, and the noble aspirations of a professional kind, and the ‘spark’, never why it was principal that we felt the breath of love that caused hairs to stand on the tip of their toes, bottom-line candour articulating exactly what’s without negotiation the first and only must, at the very least in spirit.  And gliding around soul, now and again tapping a nerve, anguish glad to feel a pulse, the more the more people speak of the same things, in the same way, talk about life as if it’s the celebrated struggle it now is, the more one listens the more it’s bound to transpire that love hurts - it was difficult to explain, harder to attain - it was just a moment whilst a rare-heteroclite intervened on the nothing new, and I’ll be dammed reflected on the bafflingly beautiful thing that had long since lost its way.

 

Neither of us there last night was the same as we use to be fifteen years ago, and when we spoke about relations with relationships, though the jovial character of yesteryear joked about the content, and enjoyed the laugh, there were hints of raw aching when truth be told talked about pass loves; the one’s that didn’t quite make it, and the ones that might not make it, and why.  Consequently,  still a firm enthusiast when it comes to writing poetry to climax truth is we talked about the disappearing acts of a myth, however it was considered, it was them of this generation and they’ll answer, they’ll articulate the feeling with precise critique, where trying to find a space in the crowded function is the only function, it is them and their perceived patience to bulls**t sensitive, and not so subtle implications, however consciously, and  by coincidence conversation considers it, it was a  sure sign of the times, if thy were barely living off a pay-cheque, or no cheque, unembellished, uninvolved in the status of the quo and yet have enough love for everybody they knew, and then some, modern paces dictating the latter being a distant afterthought type of times, wretched tempi’s, instances when ol’ skool always refers to a time better than today, eras when love was generously spoken, and accessible, when the intent was not to be dehumanised by the mechanics of demographic hotspots. Love?

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