The Struggle, The River, and Tranquility

The Struggle
I dreamt of them, at separate time, last night. It was of just me being with each of them, and in both dreams I was happy. It was the touch of her hand, the feel of her presence, and the sound of her laughter. Such is the case with my dreams of the both of them, nothing more than a painful reminiscence, but oh how happy I was! Only to awake to the photos of them with other men on social media, and the empty space upon my sheets. So I rose from the bed, familiar with this feeling of longing and regret, but noticed the small flame of hope I feel in the back of my mind. That flame I know shall grow in time, so I do not despair. No, in fact today I can indeed smile as I look upon myself in the light of the day. In fact I do not feel as if I must cloud my mind with hops and vapors to be able to smile again. No, I can indeed smile, and I can smile with my teeth showing and my eyes holding the whisper of a sparkle once more. Yet, despite the progress I have seen, I do struggle. I do find myself drinking from that stagnant water that is regret and nostalgia. Perhaps it is because I fear that it may be some time yet before I find another source of water, so I stay along the dying banks of the past. That riverbank that dies from the water's halted flow. So perhaps that is the source of my struggle? Perhaps it is because I continue to nurture myself on dying land that I feel this darkness in the peripherals of my flickering hope.

The River
I see the water there, in my mind’s eye, so still it casts a near perfect reflection of the scenery which surrounds it, thus giving its cruel illusion of beauty, but upon closer inspection you find its sinister nature. It is indeed but a reflection, nothing more. That there is the true pain of regret and nostalgic memories, the fact that they are not the real experience, simply reflections of what once was, and thought they may be good things, they are things that can never again come to pass. It is our refusal to accept this painful truth that leaves us slaves to the still waters and dying banks of The River. We cannot move onto another place, one with a flowing river that gives life and happiness to those who feast from its fruit, because we cannot let go of the beauty of the stagnant waters.

Tranquility
The stillness of the water and the deafening silence of the grove screams to you that his is a place of tranquility, and for a moment it is, for a moment you bask in the sound of that silence. Until, however, you realize that the “tranquility” of the riverbank breeds only turmoil within your heart and soul. Though you appear to be at peace, and though this place feels at one with itself, self-reflection reveals that the mirror images you see dancing upon the water’s surface do little more than tear at you, slowly, ripping you apart from the inside out until you have no choice but to seek shelter in that water, and join the ancient depths beneath that reflective surface of tranquility, destined now to become a memory yourself, forever.