I’ve been thinking a lot about death, which, invariably, brings me back to love.
Love, it’s what it’s all about and i sometimes wonder if i’m just bad at it. Like, my love is so fleeting and fickle. I’ve loved you all, but probably only for a minute or two. I fall in love with most girls i meet the minute i meet them. Sometimes it’ll last a few days or even weeks, but usually it’s just for the moment and then you’re just another person again. Girls have this certain quality to them, this endlessness, this wondrous eternal beauty to them. Not just the way they look or the way they feel, but there’s something in them, some kind of light and song that radiates from them and, if you listen close, really listen, and just finally shut up, you’ll hear their song and you’ll be bathed in their light. You can know them, for once, forever, you’ll see into them and you know everything, not just about them, but about yourself, about existence. And that’s what love is, i think. Or know, rather, that it’s seeing oneself in the other. It’s primal, love is. Dogs form packs because they recognise the other as themself, same for primates and insects. It’s a recognition that i am you and you are me. Because we all love ourselves the most, even if you hate yourself, there is no one that you love as much as yourself until you truly love, and then you’d break your legs if it’d make her smile for even a second. It’s a beautiful thing, recognising the other in you and you in the other, though i’m using Lacanian speak here for some reason. But you girls, you have something and i’ll follow you to the end, forever. Not all of you, but the right ones, because you’re not all the same.
I’ve only really loved very few people, could fit them in one hand, probably on two fingers. Real love is a rarity, but love in general is as numerous as the stars. We love to love. It’s a disease, but an uncommon disease, like how philosophy is a disease of humanity and morality is a disease of the mind. Love is a wonderful disease and it’s not just for us, for humans, but you’ll hear it in the birds or in the puppy you hold. It’s like a wound or an itch that you can’t stop poking or scratching or rubbing ointment on. It’s always in your mind, even when you’re saying goodbye to your mother or buying liquor, she’s in your mind, gnawing at the corners of your brain. You see her everywhere, feel her fingers on your neck, hear her song in the wind. She’s a festering wound that’s taking every molecule of your being. And it can kill you. We’ve all died for love, fallen apart over it. It’s sacked nations, torn thrones apart, broken the world in half. Love will make you do crazy thins, and the right girls will make you do the craziest, but, if she’s a good one, she’ll never ask you to. Because those ones are dangerous, the ones who kill you actively and on purpose. Run, boy.
I have loved, i think, but, like i said, my love is fleeting. And i wonder what that means. If i’m bad at love or don’t love myself properly or just see nothing in other people. And that’s the part that’s scary, that i may see nothing in other people worth liking or loving. But i think it’s more that i love the moments, because they’re all we have, and they’re the only things that can be perfect, and it’s why i love you all so fleetingly, because we’ll have a perfect moment or a perfect night and i’ll relish and live in each inch of your skin, each breath from your lips, the way yours eyes flutter and the way your voice sounds. And i’ve had those nights, those perfect ones, because they do exist, with a stranger and we’re perfect and beautiful for those hours, for that night, because she’ll teach me more everything with the touch of her hand or the sway of her hair or that look in her eye, the way it flashes and glows. And it needn’t be physical, though that can make things quite nice, but you can be so utterly lost in one another that your bodies needn’t ever touch and i’ll love you from arm reach and i’ll look at you and know every second of you.
It’s why every poet is a failed lover. Because they’re trapped in moments and their perfection. They’ll see the beauty of a shooting star and live in it for months or the way her fingertips feel against your palm and that’s all you need for days and you’ll smell her for weeks and her song is trapped in your chest.
And when you love, you share, and you give one another these moments and you tell them your memories, which is dangerous business because it’s all we have, all we are, our memories. And when you give someone a memory, there are parts of it you never get back. And when you tell a memory, it changes, because it’s no longer just yours. It’s now a part of them and they’ll share it with others and then the original memory’s all clouded and no longer yours. It changes shape and that’s why the stories you tell most often are the least true. You tell it all away and it means nothing and is nothing but a mist of words tied together by hundreds of people that forgot the order of them. The true ones, the ones that are at our center, that mean everything, are the ones we keep to ourself, that we never utter. Or, if we do, it’s about someone else. We’ll use another, the other, to explain every bit of our lives. We’ll cover it up and hide it all in fiction so deep that no one will tease it away and learn what we hold inside. It can be telling a friend about another friend’s dog dying and every syllable, every letter carries your entire life in it and you’re bleeding into each sentence because it’s all you have.
So what does this have to do with death? Why are death and love bound together? Because they’re always there and they’re the only things that last, though they fly by and never exist and are always forgotten. And i love death. I sometimes think it’s the only thing i’ve ever loved. My own death. I love it and it’s the only memory i want because it’s everything to me and i keep it close and, even when i’m not, i’m always writing my own death across every page of fiction. Every word has me dripped into it, has my own death written out into it. It’s not a sad thing, i refuse to think of death as sad. it’s the final act of living and it’s the one that holds your whole life in it and it’s just a moment, one instant you’re alive and the next you’re not, but in between is everything, every love you ever had, every breath you ever breathed. And it connects us all and i think that’s where my desire to constantly travel, to constantly be moving comes from. I want to die across the world, smear myself into every human, bleed into the sand of every shore, disintegrate into the wind and blow across continents, dump my blood into every language. But that’s not a desire to have my death known or remembered, it’s just i want to connect it all, fill in the spaces, make it all one.
And i hear music. Strings swirl round and they collide with deep heavy piano keys. It’s a cyclone with me at the middle and equilibrium hits me. The world falls away, every atom of me falls apart, i disintegrate into nothing and there is nothingand i’m whole and one but these strings and keys cycloning and my broken atoms join with everything else, melting into the world, tying it all together, myself with the selves of millions of others and there are only the strings and piano keys and i cease existing as a person but am everything and i smile and i’m perfect and i’m dead.