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As I remember we fitted together like a key in a lock. Until the way-would gypsy in me broke the lock that held us together. I was not ready to nest, I wanted to spread my wings and fly. Like the wild goose Frankie Lain sang about, in the 50s. But it was Judith Durham’s The Carnival is over that was haunting me in the 60s those harbour lights had mesmerised me.
Life is a puzzle, full of ironies, and words are an imperfect medium to explain it. To allowed the monkey in our mind to wilfully swing from thought to thought is not mindful. When one consciously lets the mind recall the past, or purposely plan for the future, it is alright. It is when we let our mind run on auto pilot and allow our subconscious to take the wheel we are in danger of losing control.
Hurrying to the future is prevalent in the technological world of today. Oblivious of our tasty breakfast we gulp our food to rush to a mundane job. Toiling for more than we need, desiring status symbols or devices we are told will save us time. Time cannot be saved; it is a passing thing that cannot be clung to. Aware, but not consciously aware and mindful, mindful is to be consciously aware, not running on auto pilot.
Knowing I am dwelling in the past is not fretting or regretting, it is recalling those passionate hot to trot youthful days, when love was synonymous with romance, infatuation and conquest. It is good not to forget those days and criticise the youth of today. Our vocabulary has improved now we know the meaning of reciprocity. Aware that true love is giving more than taking. True love is one thing that the more you give the more you receive.
Ignorant of the wisdom of the sages passed down through the ages. Back in my youth I had two gypsies in me, called curiosity and adventure, goading me on. The warm bed the tender caresses forfeited for faraway fields. There is no remorse, only a bitter sweet feeling of what might have been. I am sure I did the right thing; I needed to grow in understanding.
Traveling alone in foreign lands is the best teacher one can ever have.
In my memory she will remain a golden haired girl full of life. In reality I can imagine a grey and wrinkled woman. Our memory can span the ocean of time but an ocean of water has flown under the bridge since the 60s. Perhaps after a long tiresome journey she has gone home to rest. To be a billion dust-mites floating on the morning breeze to sparkle in the morning sun as new life.
I will end my love story here I have revealed enough. I have given you more than you realise, if not what you expected. Sorry if the ending was not a wonderful exciting climax. But this is not a TV romance made to make millions. It is just a story similar to many stories that leave us wondering.