As I stood there talking to my old friend, he jabbered on and on about Oscar Wilde. I had forgotten about him. I don't often forget people but somehow the hours we spent together each Sunday disappeared until last night. He had bared his soul to me and I to him yet at the time I hadn't realized that was what was happening. I mistook it all for banter and conversation to fill the dull moments. Months before moving to New York he lent me a book. Intrigued by the concept, I attempted to read it and felt like I was losing my mind. I wasn't ready for it. I remember making sure to return his book on my last day as I never planned on returning and never thought I'd see him again.
Never say never. He was 1 of 6 that came to visit me in NY. Which I had also forgotten until I saw him. I poured my broken heart out over Smac in the East Village. He was the first friend from back home I was able to vent to about everything that had happened. He knew (and kept) my secrets when no one else from here did.
I wasn't ready to read that book when he lent it to me. And yet, months later I was introduced to music from the same seed the book bloomed from and fell head over heels in love with both the sound and the source. 2 sides of the same coin. The ways in which She had been whispering and tugging and pulling my heart strings towards the space I need to be in long before I even realized it existed continue to reveal themselves. While one can philosophize and say there are no "wrong" choices, I've learned that I must choose my heart. Every. Single. Time.
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