This is lovesickness. It’s knowing, and grief. Such grief. Suddenly, after long ago giving up, and almost as long ago, coming to terms with giving up, I understand the human condition of love. To be alive, reborn. And at the same time, cruelly, impossibly, eternally, out of reach. True love: Once, phrase. It now gives meaning to false loves. Of almost loves. Half love. Quite love. That’ll do love. But not true. My mind is an ocean of you.
I am happy, deeply settled and content, like never before because I know the search is over. And my family and friends see change. They see a person reborn of course, freshly confident and alive, exhilarated by the capacity of us: humans. They see a still man, in place of weary, in an unacknowledged life-long pursuit of a faded, blurred and perhaps apparitional, dream.
Inside my head, there is no letup. I am feasting on memory and fantasy, very nearly lost in them both. I am abandoning, helplessly, my every thought to you. And it will not relent. I thought a day, or maybe a few. I thought, as hangover fades, life carries on, my mind would re-emerge, re-engage with the world. But it is drunk and heady on love. It will not give in or up. It does not want to come back. I cannot sleep, I cannot work, I cannot do. I am sick, perhaps medically, definitely emotionally. I’m an opium addict. I am gone.
I need to break this.
I have to break this.
There is no future. My one, true, experience. There can be no future. No path emerges, none. How cruel is this? How callous. To give the possibility, so pure, and then hide it, forever. Such trickery.
Loneliness. Joy. Loss. Grief. Longing. Yerning. Aching. Love.
The sentence begins. I will never be the same. I don’t want to be.
This world is now full of you. Perfect words and smile and beauty and body and wit and smile. And smile. And you will always be, somewhere. Unknowingly giving my life the meaning of love.
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