Upon Love

Love in its nakedness, its wretchedness, is a celebration. It is a whole in itself. A stark contradiction to the wall of reality. It is deep—it is that deep well that has no end, but a sparkling heart, an irresistible heart. But to know what the well holds, one must fall. And fall deep. One cannot hold on to the meaningfulness of the skies that’s left behind. One should believe in the meaninglessness of the swiftness of the fall. One has to believe in the madness, the madness of plunging in a well. To hold onto nothing but air, and fall—ceaselessly. It is this that makes it so exciting, and stretches it beyond understanding.

But to expect another to understand this madness is as stupid as it is futile. It is an individual’s individuality. It can not be shared. It could be reciprocated, but never shared. Like—to belong to another, one must be free—completely free. And to be free means that one does not expect. It goes like a gift. One is thoroughly happy in the ecstasy of the feeling itself. Of the lift of that fall into the well. Of the sights and feelings one has in the stomach, during the fall. The tickle, the charmed blank sweetness of everything. That my friends can not be shared. That my friend is like a question without an answer. And answer it must not have. For it is in this blankness that lies all the depth and beauty of that well.

Come now, oh! Beautiful surprise
I seek only your beautiful eyes
And the glow that they behold
But come in your nature bold