The soul of her existence inspired life in me.
The energy of her presence reminded me of the true meaning of life’s quarrels.
Her unique aura reminded me of a time when chaos and harmony clashed together to create beautiful and wicked life as it once was before.
Her doubts and insecurities reminded me that we’re all just humans full of emotions that I may never fully understand and will never wholly appreciate.
But my manhood is the compliment of her womanhood. Her soul is the Yin, and my mind is the Yang. Her ethereal being is the light to my darker reality which I will never show her. Her blossoming life force is what attracts people to gather together and become happier. My life force reminds people of the necessary harshness of our natural world and order.
My rough hands interlace with her soft and reassuring palms. Her existence is both significant to me and a nuisance. For she is both as necessary as the air we breathe, and ironically so, she is also the metaphorical pain in my heart. The pain reminds me that we must deal with emotions even if we wish feelings could just disappear.
Her emotional intelligence far exceeds my more inquisitive mindset. Her natural intuition senses things I’ll never see. In contrast, the man’s perception of the physical life will never entirely phase her own life force. For her heart is beyond the physical manifestations of our being.
A woman is not of bleak reality. No, she is of boundless creativity, ready to burst open at the seams with an unapologetic life force.
Yet, she also has a strange way of keeping me grounded when I begin to try and live past the physical manifestation of this existence. For I will never know the world, a woman lives in, and I’ve accepted that I am okay with such a truth.
I will never know her secrets, wisdom, thoughts, or personal desires for a truly balanced life.
But in that same regard, she will never know the secrets I know, the adventures I go on, or the memories created. She will never know the many loves of my life. For even though she is a massive part of my life- she isn’t my entire life. I appreciate her existence and presence, but I also must have my own space just as much as she needs hers.
I feel selfish, and I wish I didn’t feel this way.
But life is about the golden memories we create, not the overarching society. It’s about enduring the pains and heartache and remembering that I can’t afford to stop and remorse for lost loved ones as a man.
The same society that hinders her personal freedoms also forbids my emotions and thoughts. For she may not realize it yet, but her existence far exceeds my own. She is the bearer of all human life, and I am merely a man. A man who can certainly do great things; but does not care for pandering to a society that holds us all back.
For I champion my own success.
We are all faced with adversity. Yet, in this ever-changing world full of automation and machine, I have reverted back to being human. I have been reminded of the actual world of possibilities and imagination once again. It rests with human creativity, human ingenuity, and human perseverance, not with machines.
Throughout these last couple of years, I’ve come to realize that a woman’s life is full of so many interesting, sad, funny, horrifying, amazing, unique, and miscellaneous moments.
Her existence is one of pure good and evil. She lives knowing the truth of our being, knowing that humans are her children to raise. To know that the world will one day take her children’s innocence away without her consent or forewarning. She knows that all of her loved ones will fade away, and one day, she will find herself alone and reminded of our bleak and terrifying reality.
But like a man, she will also have her own secret memories. Memories in which she will cherish forever through time immemorial.
And moreover, she still has a purpose in her life outside of society.
She will guide the hand of the misguided, the abandoned, the forgotten. For she will remain steadfast in her judgment of what’s truly right and what is wickedly wrong. For even though man’s judgment may be clouded by unchanging circumstances, a man must go through his life without conundrums or contradictions.
A woman, however, will fight with a voice mightier than any lion, louder than any howling wind, and more potent than any poison. For her words sting the hardest, grow the thickest, and blossom the brightest. She has a way with her presence that sways me to believe her every word.
Love has a funny way of blinding a man from otherwise obvious signs of danger or misgivings.
I know she will never truly understand a man’s world – but she doesn’t need to. She is the world. She is nature incarnate. At the end of the day, as long as we both know that our love burns brightly in this small moment in time, then I can live with the fact that we may never understand one another.
My days are filled with meaning only because of her joy. My sorrows only exist because of her faithful and feigned emotions. My heart only beats due to the boundless love and bottomless anger she makes me feel at times.
It’s passion, and I don’t know what I would do without her. Then, of course, I would find another, and another, and another. But I would never be satisfied with any other.
For I could never live without a woman’s love. A woman’s love is the purest form of life there is in the world. She may not realize it right now, but her heart and her thoughts are what make this world magical and matter again.
We see eye-to-eye and understand that we will forever be at odds. The woman understands we have roles to play, temporary parts to a fading play. She knows that this life is terribly short, so she makes the best of her days. I may have just realized my own mortality, but she knew of death the moment she realized she could create life.
I could go on about my admiration and amazement at a woman’s existence, but I won’t. I know she understands our existential manifestation and our never-ending love for passion. She knows the man is nothing without a woman. In that same regard, even if she never voices it, she understands that life would be meaningless without man’s toil and aggression.
But in the end, when the curtains of this fading play finally drape down at the end; I will die knowing that I’ll never find another one like her. She was my first love, and she’ll forever be my last.
Forever in Your Debt,
Leon R.M. Auguste