Friday, June 29

Lonely Heart Breaks

It is not often. Seldom has it happened that two hearts break in one instant and for one and the same reason. If it is the consequence of an instantaneous madness, it needs to be highly contagious. This is never the case. Hearts break only when alone.

I have not yet seen a broken heart that was able to mend its hurt or to reverse. A broken heart may sometime forgive but it never forgets.

Curiously enough it is like that tale of an angel who falls to earth, the one who breaks a heart can never return to its heavenly place.

Falling out of love is no disgrace. It happens. It may be due to change: in him, her, life, needs, desires and wants and all other things that we care for and have nothing to do with the person to whom we once said "I Love You".

Whatever might be the case or cause, "love" is not a binding contract, it is more a matter of let's wait and see how it goes.

A stream that keeps going with the promise of one day reaching the sea is not always lucky to witness the waves or to be joined and engulfed in its eternity.

May be that is why Tango is such a bliss. It allows everyone a glimpse, and a foretaste of what it may be like joining the waves, being part of the sea.

In tango it is said there can be no "heart-breaks"; the tango is said to be a madness that is in fact bliss. That blissfulness is what makes it an addiction and no wonder that we find it to be contagious.

Tango is an affair but unlike the one in life - the one outside the milonga walls - this one carries with it a contract. It states: "The outcome is always known to parties involved, the tanda does end, the songs will each finish and non keeps getting repeated just for you or the one in your arms, and the embrace... well that one can either become a memory to keep someone in mind or at its worst one is allowed one's best to disregard and not to recall and this is no crime."

In our heart-of-hearts the truth is often different. In some rare occasions, there is that someone, the one who stirs a storm in our mind. The embrace would then feel like a hot desert whose burnt skin is being kissed, and caressed with pearl-droplets of rain. One can sense it, the touch, the scent, the feel, the conformity, and the care. The dream of our heart, the desert, being adorned by wild flowers in all colours of pink, blue, cyan, white, purple, and red - bloody red, will drive us away from our reality, we arrive at the edge, and someone keeps telling us to jump! Don't fear!

These combined create a blissful moment of unattainable perfection, and in our very imperfect lives this causes us sometimes to commit a mistake, by default. This is really no one's fault.

Once the actuality hits us again, and again, and....again the blissfulness leaves us and we feel drained, we pretend "It never happened".

Those longing glances across the floor, they become careless sometimes, and tell their own story: the tale of an angel who fell and does not know now how to return.

MilongaCat.
The only cat who loves you back!

2 comments:

Maria said...

Milonga Cat,

This is really beautiful!! Truly loved your post,

Tanguera

Anonymous said...

Dear MilongaCat,
Thank you! It's written beautifully. Touched my heart.
It reminded me of Pablo Neruda's "Poem of Love".



I can write the saddest lines tonight.

Write for example: ‘The night is fractured
and they shiver, blue, those stars, in the distance’

The night wind turns in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like these I held her in my arms.
I kissed her greatly under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could I not have loved her huge, still eyes.

I can write the saddest lines tonight.
To think I don’t have her, to feel I have lost her.

Hear the vast night, vaster without her.
Lines fall on the soul like dew on the grass.

What does it matter that I couldn’t keep her.
The night is fractured and she is not with me.

That is all. Someone sings far off. Far off,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

As though to reach her, my sight looks for her.
My heart looks for her: she is not with me


The same night whitens, in the same branches.
We, from that time, we are not the same.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the breeze to reach her.

Another’s kisses on her, like my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body, infinite eyes.

I don’t love her, that’s certain, but perhaps I love her.
Love is brief: forgetting lasts so long.

Since, on these nights, I held her in my arms,
my soul is not content to have lost her.

Though this is the last pain she will make me suffer,
and these are the last lines I will write for her.

Pablo Neruda