A desolation out of which writing comes. An emptiness of words. The streets are dark as I walk. Perhaps love is not fullness but the absence itself.
'Despair....invokes beauty only to pour the void into it. The emptiness of the soul is so vast, its cruel advance so inexorable, that any resistance to it is impossible. What would be left of paradise if it were seen from the viewpoint of despair? A graveyard of happiness.' E.M. Cioran, Tears & Saints.
We cannot merge. Are we are in love with each other's absence? Our holy madness is our love, founded on renunciation.
I am emptied in my love for you. I have no desire to possess you - desire emphasizes lack. Even in this violent wrenching towards each other where we are alienated and jubilatory. When we are empty of ourselves we take joy in the sweetness of the other.
If I could tell you a story, I would. There are no avenues of magnolia trees here, though I wish there were.
'Loneliness means I am at last whole.
Only with him could I be lonely. Open up to him. Completely open, completely for him. Welcome him completely into myself. Surround him with the labyrinth of shared happiness. I know it is you.' Peter Handke, Wings of Desire.
I am alone with he who is alone. Seul á seul.
I'm looking for the essence
that I can drop on my tongue,
until I am suffused with the
scent. Until my kisses are
........soft white petals of perfume.
Imagine the magnolia trees where Venus is born aloft on the shell blown by Zephyr.
Where writing comes to an end and sinks into its