You said, how was it we found each other? I replied, because we wanna ride it to the end.
We know this now. It’s been confirmed a thousand times. It’s why there is an ever growing space between them and us. Why they snitch. Talk behind their hands. Smile in that condescending way. Take pity on us; like we ever needed their sanctimonious ‘understanding’.
They stick to the middle, living in beige safety. In fear of the other. Fear of themselves. That’s why they hold fast to the doomed mechanisms of control. They think the suicide bombers are the terrorists – but look at them; polluting the land and sea and sky in the name of mortgage belt horror and 24/7 plastic coated convenience. In the name of their so called lifestyle. Their precious standard of living. Or God forbid, family values. Is there anything more pusillanimous and complacent?
It’s why we need to let them go. Because we wanna ride it to the end. Because we know we’ll burn. Because we’re cool with the idea that it all comes to nothing. We do not require the opium of storybook narratives – their Gods and after lives, their bucket lists and status cults, the vanity of their one sentence enlightenment. Let’s leave them to their belief and elope with our beautiful doubt.
We are but a breath away from nothing, my love. So let’s breathe. Allow the wave to take us. Surf the uncertainty. Because we’re gonna ride it to the end. Because in the end, the end is all there is. The futile struggle to hang on is for slaves. They can keep their bondage – their manacles made of dread and denial – and leave us to fall from the sky. To know, for the merest of blinks, the euphoria of flight.
Does that answer your question?
Love letter # 433
I was enveloped by you. Saturated as if by monsoon rain. Just to be near you. To watch the rise and fall of your breathing. To see the exquisite detail of your lashes. To feel the warmth of your form and the gravity of your presence. I did not need words for it then – or now really. I write as though to confirm, to make plain. Yes, you have set the fire in me. You have fanned the flame. And now it is pouring from me; this mighty tide of light. This euphoria of wanting nothing else. Just this. Today, tomorrow and every other day I could name.
Love letter # 328
It happened a couple of days ago. It wasn’t a surprise but it did burst a bubble. Intellectually knowing it is one thing, seeing it so clearly demonstrated is another. Hope and fantasy thrive on denial, on pretending, on maybe maybe – but they cannot be sustained when reality is so unwittingly played out before you.
There is no blame. There will be no name calling. No retro-fitted accusations. The simple fact is that the flame I have been quietly kindling burns in you for another. I saw it your eyes and smile when he arrived. In the way you looked up at him. And in that moment I understood without any possible recourse to fantasy that you did not and will not reserve such eyes for me.
So if I seem a little strange, withdrawn, not so forthcoming – you now know why.
Love letter # 350
We are, both of us, old enough to understand that some things can’t be fought – won’t be solved or made better with either wishing, ideology or just ‘going along’. It’s true, I could simply use you for the sex and kindness you are offering; but then, what happens when the deed is done and the generosity starts to seem one sided? And what kind of person would that make me?
Much as this moment is awkward, awful and a wrench for us, in a month – six months, a year – we will both be glad it happened this way. I realise that this is an easy and perhaps righteous thing to say but I also think that you know it’s true.
I will not apologise for not being ‘in love’ with you but I will say sorry if I inadvertently gave you hope or caused you pain. Maybe I tried too hard to be kind and, in indulging this weakness, I twisted the knife much more than it needed to be. I tried to limit what I knew had to be your suffering because, selfishly, I wanted to limit my own. I do not claim noble self-sacrifice as a motivation.
Yet neither do I wallow in the vain drama of middle class guilt. We are, none of us, perfect or above reproach, especially when feelings are high and desire clouds our judgement. I know that you came at this with the best intentions – with love, compassion, openness, good humour and a giving attitude – but if anything we are both at fault for failing to best manage the mis-match and losing our beautiful, extraordinary friendship along the way.
Love may well offer us everything we wish for but in its brightly shining eye it also blinds the mere mortals in its sway and asks us to render everything unto its power. We are but two more fools paying the price.