“I love her, heart and soul. She is everything to me. And yet she is nothing like the women I dreamed of, like those ideal creatures whom I worshipped as a boy. She corresponds to nothing I had conceived out of my own depths. She is a totally new image, something foreign, something which Fate whirled across my path from some unknown sphere. As I look at her, as I get to love her morsel by morsel, I find that the totality of her escapes me. My love adds up like a sum, but she, the one I am seeking with desperate, hungry love, escapes like an elixir. She is completely mine, almost slavishly so, but I do not possess her. It is I who am possessed. I am possessed by a love such as was never offered me before—an engulfing love, a total love, a love of my very toe-nails and the dirt beneath them—and yet my hands are forever fluttering, forever grasping and clutching, seizing nothing.”
Perhaps I’m a loner, a solitary stoner,
Flaneur buried deep in my thoughts,
Perhaps I’ve seen it all, no more wherewithal,
to turn the can’t(s) into oughts.
But is it so bad, to feel unbearably sad,
a vocation I insist we pursue,
for the next time we’re glad, so unbearably glad,
we’re likely to forget what is true.