Interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, all lie in mystery rather than identity. Within the realm of mystery, love, true love, exists at that moment, that place, where truth and magic collide.

And what does that mean to me?

It means that my fears have become someway bound by her, as if  I were making a confession to myself. It means that the past, all of that time before her, though not forgotten, has lost all continuing significance. It is as though the language in which I write, once foreign, I am now able to read, to comprehend, lexicon and syntax in perfect embrace. Equivocally, it seems, she suggests to me aspects of myself hitherto unknown to me. As a muse, capable but reluctant to lead, following personal illumination providentially blessed, the lessons she confers are bestowed as if by destiny.