It is not love in which I believe. That is to say the implication of the word. The word I use, it is easy. It is it’s meaning that holds no reality for me.
Instead I accept what I know to be true about this love of which we speak. I believe in the fantasy. I believe in make-believe love. Threaded a thousand times with desire. Desire to cross over, to transcend, to step into the television.
This is not our fate. We are stuck here in this physical space only able to catch a glimpse of another soul. It is painful at that, being only a glimpse. Our souls ache to make contact. To mesh and gel.
Each soul needs something different. Some need constant mesh, others need to clash and retreat.
We get close in our physical love making, and in our gestures but we don’t make it. And so creates our obsession. Obsession to capture this slippery fish instead of admiring it letting it go.
