The poem for this Sunday is called “Déjà Vu” and it was written on the backbone of my issues with intimacy and deeper connections with others. It is not that I fear intimacy, no. I, like so many others, crave a connection where I can be my full self with no need for translations or covering pleasantries. But unfortunately what is desired is not so easily gained in matters of the heart.
When I say “And so I come to the crossroads” at the beginning of the poem, I mean to covey the choice between continuing to deny myself and my desire for love in order to perpetuate some kind of feigned strength and self… and the truly courageous but markedly less safe decision to follow the path of love, which may lead just as well to happiness as to heartbreak.
But of course, saying that “I” alone am at the crossroads is not entirely correct in the context of the poem, is it?
No, there is another with me, and they wait and are gentle with my spirit as I fret and worry myself over the option that will keep me from being harmed the least.
I am absolutely, totally just talking about the poem here. Ab-so-lutely just the poem.
In the end – in my mind – there is the joining of hands, and myself and my faceless amour carve our own path through the sticky bramble of the yellowing, grassy field I saw in my mind as I wrote the poem. Ultimately my self-as-narrator has decided that both paths set before me may ultimately lead to pain. So if pain is a probability that lies at the end of both, why not simply create a new, untrodden path that – while not so easily undergone – may prove more fruitful.
Or at the very least, one could say they tried something new, something which had not already been seen or done before.