Real writers do not just write churning letters out of nothing — one must have a memory, a past to recall an unforgettable observation, an unveiling, like a love affair — It’s anguish, it’s pain, it’s joy.
Love is such a beautiful yet haunting obsession. In it, one discovers the self, the friend, the lover, the ego. One understands through observation and the pathless, the pain behind such confinement where one’s story is often being untold, unshared. Yet when penned, that which is precious, that which was, becomes this memory ofttimes the collective, for then it is the secret of each outwardness, found only behind the shadows of the smile. The poignant grief behind the eyes, the story that begs to be solaced, to be set free like the fluttering wings, of a butterfly.
À votre réveil, je ne suis qu’un souvenir
Rarely, it becomes a trinket found in the common markets, for the swines to dress themselves feigning idolatry unless the spirit itself is awakened, from the reveries.
The worst thing about being human is comparable to pretending to being some other thing that one isn’t. Like a chair, where even the thought of sitting becomes stoical. No matter how bad one is at grammar, if there’s life behind it, the appreciation of a tea ceremony, it’s attention to pleasing and respecting the guests in the transference of light, that in itself, is the book that ought be read.
Understanding ofttimes pushes one away towards separation on a never ending journey of a lifetime, a secularisation towards a togetherness that ends in a marriage if companionship is rare, and unfound.
May your journey, be filled with love and much happiness.