The Love Letter

Let me begin by saying this is not a Love letter. But English dictionary has no
label for people you are fond of, drawn towards even attracted to but do not
want to label things and get into weird relationship things that are too
conventional and strange. And Absurd. Let us not forget that. But to err is
human. And to suffer is our fate. No point despairing over the existence of
Despair. But transient ephemeral attractions need to be acknowledged and
reported. Even if they amount to nothing. Even if they cause embarrassment.
And guilt. And paranoia. It makes sense that some things do not make sense. It
makes sense that some things do not work out.
Marvell knew what he was saying when he said,
The grave is a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.
So even if it is hard to roll our strength and all our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife, he is clearly constructing a fantasy. For
him, he and his mistress are conceptually united.
Already.
Which is why he can flirt both with his mistress and Death. Or his mistress who is
Death. And it does not stop here.
Love maybe used and abused everywhere. But it makes little sense to close what
desires to be open. Even if it is only to let the storms in.
Unification is an impossibility. A conundrum. Lucretius slaughtered that eons ago.
And correctly so. Passion can be boiled to what Baudelaire said Oasis of Horror
in a desert of Boredom.
Meaning is lost to us. And if we must construct our own, then it is better to be
led. Sometimes. By the waves of a violent stream of broken shards and brutality
till it sickens. And dies. But imagine ourselves Happy. Ravaged. Destroyed. But
happy. No doubt a Catch-22 of its own.
Acknowledging the fallacy. That is what it is all about
anyway.