when does real love begin? at first it was a fire, eclipses, short circuits, lightning and fireworks; the incense, hammocks, drugs, wines, perfumes; then spasm and honey, fever, fatigue, warmth, currents of liquid fire, feast and orgies; then dreams, visions, candlelight, flowers, pictures; then images out of the past, fairy tales, stories, then pages out of a book, a poem; then laughter, then chastity. at what moment does the knife wound sink so deep that the flesh begins to weep with love? at first power, power, then the wound, and love, and love and fears, and the loss of the self, and the gift, and slavery. at first i ruled, loved less; then more, then slavery. slavery to his image, his odor, the craving, the hunger, the thirst, the obsession.
the enemy of a love is never outside, it's not a man or a woman, it's what we lack in ourselves.
what you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. i am the keeper of fragile things and i have kept of you what is indissoluble.
i had been struck by the analogy between neurosis and romanticism. romanticism was truly a parallel to neurosis. it demanded of reality an illusory world, love, an absolute which it could never obtain, and thus destroyed itself by the dream.
i want to love you wildly. i don’t want words, but inarticulate cries, meaningless, from the bottom of my most primitive being, that flow from my belly like honey. a piercing joy, that leaves me empty, conquered, silenced.
i want to fall in love in such a way that the mere sight of a man, even a block away from me, will shake and pierce me, will weaken me, and make me tremble and soften and melt.
what can i do with my happiness? how can i keep it, conceal it, bury it where i may never lose it? i want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.