An exegesis of love

As time learns a boredom, loathes the determinate succession, irks with uncalendared event and brings surprise to be, the natural conscience snapped in me—and lo! I was; I am.

Like autumn becoming winter, whispering amongst the fallen leaves of the hidden lives of trees. Familiar and unfamiliar, inter-wreathed. Concealment and invention forestalling honesty and reality. Guarding herself like a myth, mystery happened, the secret revealed but not disclosed. Springing from the secret life, wherein resides all freedom, art is born.

Interest, fascination, infatuation, and 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.

In thought, constrained by definition, by identification, there are neither truth nor magic.

Deprived as it is entirely of innocence, thought is at best interpretation, at worst contrivance. Thought, unaccompanied by feeling, conjures counterfeit sensation – emotion – fancifully subjective relevancy artificially bound to judgementally subjective interest – opinion. There is no such thing as inaccuracy in thought. All thoughts are accurate. None of them, however, is the truth.

And magic…? Magic delivers all from the lie of legitimacy, liberating unto mystery. Where truth is a desperation of extremes, magic is an intoxication. Moderation seeks not to dilute the fervour of obsession, but to balance its unfolding upon the precariously navigated path between genius and madness.

In vain does one argue over definition. All identification stifles, hinders, constrains. Within the vastness of mystery alone may one strive for the limitlessness of tomorrow. Not in hopefulness, certainly, for all hope is vain and vanity; but in belief that in surrender to all that is yours to bear, all that is yours to hold will be forthcoming.

Beyond the initial desperation of love, and still further beyond, when love is but needs-met, until the end of love, it does not matter who understands you, but who will love you – despite and still – without understanding you. The one who really loves you is not the one who sees you every day – known, predictable; but the one who looks for you every day, unable to fathom the mystery of you.