The Last Romantic

THE LAST ROMANTIC ~ a love story inspired by true events ~ By Mimi B. Martinoski There is a life force within your Soul, seek that life. There is a gem in the mountain of your body, seek that mine. O traveller, if you are in search of that Don’t look outside, look inside yourself and seek that. ~ Rumi Prelude Now and then, when Belinda is reminded of her time in London it is always the Italian Gardens at twilight she is transported to. Late Autumn. Dusk, darkness, descends early at that time of year. The sound of rushing water is constant. Dying rays dance, shimmer on the surrounding stone balustrade. Swan shadows ripple in blackened fountain water. The familiar scent of decaying leaves, damp earth impregnates the air, perhaps the souls not too distant memory of where ones human vessel continually returns to. The reminiscence evokes feelings of such joy, innocence, rapture even. Seamlessly coalescing with feelings of pain, confusion, bitter and sweet loss. Yet, it will forever remain an un-regretted, cherished time for Belinda. Such is one’s journey to love, to oneself. Such a journey begins in many ways, for Belinda it is not with a triumphant trumpets call, but with a whisper. An inexorable stirring, a ceaseless ache in one’s heart. Then, a question. A creative leap occurs and love answers. Always. Divine inspiration, mercifully descends and one finally sees for the first time what’s always been there; the path. It patiently waits for one’s beloved return. Finding the path, for many, is like stumbling upon a secret garden door; ancient, covered in dark welts, beyond mysterious. A door that one is both compelled and repelled to open. Spirit’s evolutionary urge prevails, one steps onto the path; at once committed. Next, unwavering faith and the promise of devotion, utterly, completely in every sense. What can one expect on such a journey you ask? Daily vicissitudes and deluges of excitement, passion and exhilaration. Equally mingled with gut-wrenching heartache, never-ending uncertainty and tremendous, treacherous ego shattering. Love’s journey is never boring. Needless to say, the faint of heart ought not apply. It’s that simple. Or difficult, depending on how one chooses to look at it… Chapter One Early August. The train arrives into the white brilliance of the station. Seamless, precisely on time. There is a sharpness to the atmosphere, a vibrancy. Those long, hot, languid days of late summer are not present here. Having arrived at their final destination one feels a sense of alertness, expectation. Seasoned commuters, bags collected, have already formed a small, impatient queue to exit. The train slows, hisses to a stop. The desire for movement is thick, palpable. The doors cannot open soon enough. A tall, fair-haired, slender man in a wrinkled tan linen suit loosens his tie. He glances at his wristwatch, foot tapping the entire time. The anxious ego can only be confined for so long. The chimes sound, at last. The doors release. The exhale of breath is audible, in unison. Exiting the train, one’s being is assaulted by a cacophony of train station sounds mingled with the ebullient energy of this glorious city called London. The frenetic pace, the historic and urban splendor that is perennially Paddington Station. Ahead, endless expanses of pale, bone grey concrete. Above, multi-paned, arched skylights. Sunlight floods the station, geometric shapes dapple the platform, revealing the Heavens, the collective consciousness current state of mind. The mood is pre-ordained, long before one steps outside. Dense crowds, heaving, in various guises, move in every direction. A controlled chaos, people going places, things are getting done. Fragments of the mood are grinding, monotonous and endless; doomed to be repeated again and again. Yet the predominant atmosphere is alive, productive. It is an electrical current that is ready to spark at any moment if only to connect with the desired outlet. It truly renders one with the feeling of having arrived somewhere paramount, the epi-center of the Universe. Taking a deep breath, Belinda opens her eyes. The train car is empty. She slowly stands, gathers her purse, trench coat, luggage and exits without looking back. Stepping onto the platform her stride is even, purposeful. She wears a pale blue, summer-weight cotton travel skirt-suit. Beneath the tailored jacket, a short-sleeved silk ivory blouse with a high, ruffled collar. A tan trench coat is draped over her arm. She lifts her face aloft to the light, smiles and reaches up to smooth back, behind her ear a lock of thick, chestnut curly hair. Today it is pulled back into a loose braid, thick as a horse’s mane. Wisps frame her face, refusing to be tamed. Her brow is smooth, serene, she exudes warmth yet a sense of quiet strength with each step. There is a restrained confidence in the ease, the gracefulness of her movements, compassion and tenderness in the engaged tilt of her head. Today she also walks with a sound conviction in her heart. A noble confidence in her posture, a poised knowingness in her gleaming eyes. Passersby are literally left in a perplexed awe in her wake. Who is she? What does she know, they wonder. Belinda’s presence elicits conflicting emotions in one’s deeper consciousness; lofty admiration, mingled with an intrinsic feeling of recognition. What they are admiring is the absolute vision of a heroine walking her destined path. What they are mistaking for recognition is, in fact, the actual stirring of their own slumbering hero within being re-awakened, coaxed and aroused by Belinda’s heroic presence. For are we not all mere mirrors for and of each other? All seeking, reflecting and projecting our own highest ideal, value and aspirational self in people we admire? Taking the glances gracefully in stride, Belinda looks straight ahead, this heroine has a very clear purpose for this journey, and a clear vision for her life going forward. She makes her way seamlessly through the crowds. Is she just expert at deftly being able to maneuver her way through the throngs of people or were the crowds perhaps parting for her? Such is the unity, the symphonic flow one feels when walking their destined path. Doors open and obstacles vanish, everything becomes seamless and so very, very clear. Immersed, Belinda feels a oneness with the crowd, viscerally connected to the kaleidoscope of emotions surrounding, engulfing her. There is the joy in a child’s uninhibited, innocent laugh. There is utter bliss in the passionate crush of a couples loving reunion. Yet, in the other direction there is woe, emptiness. She feels the strain, the anxiety in a train station attendant’s slumped shoulders and vapid glance. A few feet away there is desolation in the lined face of a lone, painfully thin, elderly man taking respite on his equally ancient suitcase. Her heart goes out to all of them, especially the latter two, she feels their silent suffering deeply. She yearns to tell them to stop. Stop the madness, let the illusion of suffering go, for it is simply not real. The self-inflicted pain, it is not real, none of it is real. One’s sense of fear, isolation are self-created cages made with imaginary bars. For one is never alone, we are all here together, tenderly and eternally connected. Divinely linked by that unifying source called love. Love is the breath that gives the wholeness of humanity life, meaning and purpose. Belinda sighs. How did we all lose our way?