Phoenix
by Dale J. Sprague
Reveries
5.2002
I fell in love with a woman a long time ago. My love was clearly un'requited over a period of many years. Realizing that what I felt was not going to be returned, felt by her, or that I would even be seen, I set about writing literary art composition, a program composition to preserve the feeling, the sensation of love. I did not want to lose it. I knew then, dimly but enough, that it was more of what I had to offer than what I thought I was perceiving in her. It matters not. The sensation of love was all that was important. With it, all colors, sights, sounds, all sensations, all thought becomes more intense, the sensation of life far more enhanced. The composition is long and complex, and it worked. Over the years, I re'read it, and the beautiful sensation returns, but less and less, yet ever more enabled to refined it, each time. Recently, I looked at the notebook that contains it on my bookshelf. The spine read "The Rose," and suddenly I felt the loss. I felt lost love. I had no feeling for it. I opened it and read. Nothing. The love sensation, the love mantra that awakened a portion of my soul, wholly reconstructed my heart, and gave me a brand new mind, I could no longer feel. Its magic, its beauty I no longer felt. This was not the first experience of love lost, but it was one that I held for a long time. That person who loved then, died..but now there is opportunity for horse'hair strokes.