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… or how I survived being alone … again.

Now, having written that, it isn’t all that bleak. Really. Let me explain.

Some of you may have read my blog post yesterday, in which I recalled saying “And of course I didn’t get any Valentines again this year”.

Many years have passed since then. Some alone and some with someone who may as well have been alone. Funny thing about that. But I digress.

I actually am fine with the whole alone thing. Most of the time. And reality is that Valentine’s Day doesn’t hit me any differently than any other day. Usually.

Except this year.

This year, I actually did get a Valentine’s wish of sorts.  From an old friend … or two. Here is what I woke to today on Facebook from an old college friend:

Happy Valentine’s Day!!! It’s not a card but have a great day anyway.

What can I say? It made my heart melt just a little bit. He didn’t have to do that, but he did. Nice.

And my mind strayed to old friends. And old lovers. And I wondered, how much love can one heart give? And what of old loves and old lovers? Can we still hold them dear in our hearts? Even when far apart?

Am I the only one who remembers? And who still, in the corners of my heart, still loves? Who even on the odd day, like today, gets comfort from the memories?

For whatever reason I was again reminded of the poem that I reblogged a while ago here …  ‘Old Love Follows The Lover’ by Fiza Pathanby. 

I have decided that the heart is indeed still able to love … across time … across distance … across those things that separate in ways that may never be resolved.

And I think of the haunting of it all. The damnable haunting. That is part of it as well.

I decided to close the post today with words from her poem … words which for whatever reason touch me today.

1619258_10152037408793558_1160947125_n“… when I’m in his arms-I still see your face, the face of old love.

Old love will not leave me be, to ink my cauldron of magical words with happiness and gaiety.

Old love is ruining my loving stanzas to my present lover, just like the sun is marred with black dots of old flame.

Still I carry on my search for perfect happiness in my poems, like a wild stag in search of the crystal water clear to quench his thirst.

Love is alive and waiting for recognition, which I do not wish to give it.

Let it decompose into dust, so that I can feel its coarseness with my fingers, and then forget its old sting.

So dearest poet in verse, I hide from you my old love, which has wounded my shadows as well as my reflections.

Still if you wish that I should be yours-I plead with you to carry me into your bold thoughts and shun away my darkness with your strong hand.

For old love follows me close, even till the end of thought, emotions, destiny and blood.”

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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