The Pain and Pleasure of Love

This is me, now.

I'm writing this in the early morning of January 17th of the year 2017.

There is little I could explain at the moment with proper language, but my hope, albeit detrimental, is to lose myself in the typing and somehow formulate the correct variation of words amounting to something of comprehensible diction. This isn't written for the purpose of leaving impressions or provoking thought, which are synonymous to the more common agenda of these readings; no, this, as formerly mentioned, is me. The me which, after revising these words and as you read them, will be something entirely different, yet tires still from remaining reticent.

For as long as I can recall, it has been of urgent importance to protect my true self. The self, which I know very well, but remains hidden to each and all persons I have ever come in proximity to, save the corners of my own mind, and the bathroom mirror. This self, which I know very well, but have little understanding of. The self, lingering, docile, so as to not disturb the lower being which I identify with and carry forth into the interaction with and the experience for others. This self, which reveals the truth of all things before me, until the lower being in my ownership dampens the astonishment of, with a severe level of denial in order to keep on it's own game.

The game of life, of survival, of success, of failure. The constant battle between myself and this lowest form of forms - the doing, the building, the creating, the destroying, the falling, the scraping of knees, the stubbing of toes, the inevitable rising, the growing, the grace, the despair, the loneliness, the drowning, the flying, the solitude, the halfheartedness, the yearning, the necessities, the nonchalance, the anxiety, the infatuations, the orgasms, the consumption, the wastefulness, the mercy, the morals, the vices, the unending boredom, the intolerable stupidity, the unlimited variance of distraction, the readied cannons of opinion firing at whim, the overwhelming lack of consideration, the complete eradication of compassion, the trembling wake of human indecency, the absolute, the ultimate, the love for every bit of it.

Love and all it's curves and facets and corners and scars.

Love and all it's hate and glory and pride and envy.

Love and all it's birth and death.

This is me, and my lowest self called Love. Here and now, I await your arrival, in patient regard for the distance of our very hearts to lessen. Not in the diluted sense of distance apart from one another, but the difference in volume measured between the particles of air and matter. As the distance lessens, you, my love, become greater, in all sense of the word. As the distance lessens, you may consider the experience quite expansive, and yet becoming rapidly less of yourself. This is not losing yourself, it is not losing me, love. It is becoming. Becoming in such a fashion that you are broken, shattered, defiled, punctured, sunken, exiled, marred, worn, abandoned, utterly destroyed a billion times over and eternally still, all in the name of yourself, love.

For here I stand, on a floor which isn't there, waiting in a place with no time, thinking of you without a mind, craving your touch without a body, hungering for your taste without a tongue. I wish to sing for you, yet I have no voice. I wish to dance with you, yet have no feet. I wish to give you everything you've ever wanted, yet have nothing to consider giving. There is nothing I can give; at least nothing you could hold in your hands, and it breaks my heart, though there is no heart for this body, and no body in my possession.

What I would give to have you again; what I would take.

What retched discrimination, an almost aspired willingness to self-degradation. Feeble minded cowards wandering along with not a inkling towards what horrors might manifest through their hearts. Wasted, gorgeously wasted sentiment, beautiful memories molding over, precious little value contained in the grandest and most worshiped of ideologies, such magnificent complexities over the simplest of notions, infinitesimal capability of sight pressed into a grand miracle of just a few colors.

I despise this waiting, love. I can no longer stand this anticipation. If I must wait any longer for you to look up and see me...

I have not even the states of consciousness to perceive such anticipation, yet I feel it. I have not even the awareness to feel, yet I am here, aching. The aching, the aching, the aching, such dreadful aching.

Love.

Love. Love. Love.

Why must you keep me, love?

Why would I even tread on the false hope that you might hear even the loudest of utterances from my lips?

Can you not hear me because I have no voice? Do you avoid me because you cannot recognize me as your own? Why should I bother even asking these questions? What foolishness I have undertaken just to cope with your absence. I might admit I have succumb to these foul human behaviors of yours in attempt to become even slightly more transparent to your ever sinuous attention. Should I aim to amaze? What little that even means to you; I might as well be a leaf decayed, blowing across pavement just below your feet. There I might be noticed.

Though there are moments - seemingly lifetimes - when I am the one who is astonished; when I am overflowing with admiration, with unhindered occupation of your unbridled assimilation. The freedom in it, which I scarcely might assume that you see. Your gracious modesty in the remnants of forgotten wisdom. Come now, like you don't already know.

Though, your performance is taking the best of you. I see, at times, when you let it go; when you take a moment outside the mansion, away from the masquerade. When your eyes glance through the wall, through the floor; staring ever deeper. I see, at times, the release, the burden lightening. The ascension, I believe you call it. The broadening of you, love.

That is me. It is me you look towards, yet do not see. When lost in a story, when trying to remember last nights dream, the sensations sparking through you when you hear your favorite song, when indulging in the naked body of another being, when blushing over an uninvited gander into your vulnerable self, when mulling over a new idea, when catching your breathe from an epiphany, when recovering from the adrenaline of an accomplished feat; the things that keep you focused on the game.

That is me, love. Despite my selfish bantering, I dare not influence the course of an indomitable force. I could never consider myself worthy of you if I had even the thought of taking away that which keeps you alive, love. Even the suffering which you so insistently necessitate for rounding out your experience. Though I watch you and fret for lack of a gentle hand to wipe your tears, I know you ache to suffer like I ache to please you.

Can't you see it? How much you love it? How much you love?

Can't you see how much you already are?

I could be so bold to say that I am becoming more like you everyday, when all this time I though it would be you coming to me. I could be wrong, but does not my doubt provide proof? It could be that you have accelerated further than I expected. I am not surprised that you would exceed all contemplated trajectories of your evolution, as you might call it. In my doubt, half ready to surrender in permanent isolation, I should have thought better of you.

I will still wait for you, and resume captivation whilst you continue on, falling again to feel the grandiosity of the rise, so that you can again feel the drama of the fall. I will continue my observation, searching for the next lesson you provide, whatever may bring me closer to understanding, closer to being, closer to touching. Silly me, and completely you, love. 

The most majestic beast I have ever encountered, my lowest self.