I refuse to "just" do it 2

This essay is very personal.

Why do I love cherry blossoms, that which is far beyond my reach? What about leaf trees which are just as vibrant in autumn? What is it, beyond that tree, after having seen it, that I wish to feel? What pink cloud do I fantasize about hugging?

They say insanity is to do the same thing and expect different results.

What about expecting someone to give you what they don't have?

And then ... get upset about it.

Then, it wasn't the plastic that has wrapped itself around the turtle's neck, but it was the turtle that did so, victim to its own confusion. Likewise, it wasn't a lollipop that I was licking, rather a wrap, wishing there'd be one inside.

The lollipop that was promised, rightfully mine, but taken away from me, that I will never find again. Yet, like the little boy I was when it happened, I run around asking people whether they'd seen it. I watch, write and read lollipop stories, and love lollipop colored trees.

Some say they have a lollipop for me. Upon hearing, my heart ablaze, I skip and bounce, humming melodies in the rain, with a rainbow colored umbrella.

They show me the damn thing, and my heart sinks two feet below ground, the umbrella's color spilling on the concrete. "But ... that's not my lollipop." How dare they lie to me? Excite me like so, just to disappoint me. Have they no feelings? Do they not know, how long I've suffered looking for it? How empty I've felt?

They don't and they can't. No one can. Truth is, however, that even if I found it, it would not patch the crater-like wound. For I am not the same boy, and it would not be the same lollipop.

That's a bitter pill to swallow.

Now what?

I am an adult man, running around looking for lollipops, asking different women to make up for the years of love I didn't get. To accept me, and hold me, just like my mother should have. No matter how much I hold myself, how gently I rub my arms when sobbing, the desire to be held by someone else does not subside. Not even a little.

And even if there were someone, who'd be ready to do so, despite the pitiful mess I am, I wouldn't be able to let go. For it is not the same lollipop.

Is it so, in the end, that all that men do, is look for their mothers? In their ventures and artistic raptures, all they yearn to do is to become one with the universe, that which gave birth to them? Are we all just stray boys looking for their lollipop? And I wonder, even if you were to get enough motherly love in your childhood, wouldn't that just make it more so?

And if you were to disregard this, waving your hand, I ask you to think again.

Don't we all, deep inside, wish to be held and accepted, loved and cared for?

This has nothing to do with masculinity. It's not how big your muscles are, how fierce a fighter, or how independent you are. It is not meaning, a cherished goal or an important mission, though sometimes they might mix.

It's the brightness of your heart with which you embark on these missions, and the intent behind it.

That is not to say, that one can never appreciate, accept and reciprocate the love of another woman again. Once awareness breaks the spell, one can detach and move on. Watch the lotus of life unravel, without wishing for a specific outcome. The color returns to the umbrella, and perhaps, hand in hand, man and woman walk under it.

The pain of loss, might never subside, but it will shine a bright light onto that which one does have. Instead of weeping for that which is never to come back, be grateful for that which has come and unravels in the present.

To watch the lady be the lady she is, without impinging on her, wanting her to be different, wanting her to tend to your wounds or hold you. But to appreciate when she does.

"What do you like about me?" I asked.

"You want some validation?" she asked.

Shouldn't she want to validate me? I wondered. Isn't that what "love" is? Yet, precisely, what if there is no 'love' to speak of? Would that make her a 'bad' person? And what if the intention behind my question wasn't as 'innocent' as I thought it was?

Perhaps, consciously or not, she sensed that childish longing for mother. And having lived with women, and knowing their sharp intuitions, she most likely did. Having taken that jab, I am grateful.

It hurt. The pain led me to a place where an old cherry tree stood, which hadn't bloomed in twenty years and under it, sat a young boy, sucking on a candy wrap, waiting for spring to come.

I approached him, "I know it is not the same tree, but how about we go somewhere ... where the cherries still bloom?"

At first unsure, as if struck by some unseen ghost, his eyes raced with anxiety. But then, staring at the withered tree, he looked back at me, smiled and nodded.

I took him by the hand and we walked, the old tree crumbling to dust behind us. The boy was the only thing that held it together.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I want a lollipop."

"I know," I sighed. "Me too."