You might be forgiven for thinking, from the poetry I have been reading and reposting lately, that there is still some residual bitterness in my heart. Not so, Dear Reader. It is rather as if I recognise in the poetry a quality I had not previously seen, possibly in the same sense that a picture of the Eiffel Tower would have more significance to one who has actually stood beneath it.
I have been there. I understand what the poet is saying. I find this an excellent way to externalise the vestiges of pain and look upon it objectively. Plus it is a valid reminder that one is never alone. Someone else has travelled the same road. There is also a little of the “Wish I had said that” in the reposting. I do like a well-chosen phrase.
It is nearly three years now since I last had a cuddle, so to speak, and almost exactly two years since I learned I would not be getting any cuddles on my return from Fiji.
At this time I have found I can exist pretty well without, and fully expect to continue to do so indefinitely. There is certainly no potential cuddlee in the offing around here. I actually ruminated recently, for the first time ever, on whether it might be interesting, entertaining, or perhaps even beneficial to my mental well-being, to engage the professional services of an expert cuddler. I have no idea where to find one, except in Kalgoorlie. A long way to go!
I have no real interest in a transaction of that nature. In a very detached and academic self assessment, the conclusion I very easily reached was that cuddling – like scuba diving -was a very enjoyable pastime, and an uplifting experience. Both at one time or another had been the very core of my existence, but I was managing very well without both. I have fond memories. On the other hand, I still have my mask, snorkel and flippers.
And let us not forget; two motorcycles.