Context: The Café
Beauty, like life, is a transient thing and the experience of it brings as much suffering as it does joy – an equation perhaps weighted to the darkness more than to the light and in the inevitability of the ends we all must face, this seems a certain truth. The sense of fragility and indefinable loss at the constant departure of life and love is, to me, the one binding experience we all share but rarely if ever feel emboldened to discuss. We are those implicitly emotional beings that are somehow too scared to demonstrate how we feel about our own life and subsequently spend our time wondering why we are endemically-oriented towards feeling so deeply and utterly dissatisfied and empty.
Poets’ loves and poets’ lives are similarly marked and inflected by the visceral, implicit tragedy of discontinuous presence and absence, by the gradual overbalancing of the runner and their tipping-over of control and into loss and affective immolation. The emptiness that the creative captures or represents is really nothing other than the essential emptiness that lies in all of us and that in these rare or precious moments of reflective, emotional authenticity percolates to awareness and into the shared worlds of words, images and communication.
An inspiration is always and already a sorrow-in-waiting because it will always, always leave us and the beauty of such longing is not – sadly or solely – in the aspiration to attainment, but in the consideration and haunted memories of emotional disassembly and the visceral desolation of loss. This momentum and indefinite self-propagation of emotional discontinuity is nothing more than an intimate human interpretation and experience of the general winding-down that is life and time, of the impossibility of regaining that which only ever really delivers it’s true currency and value to us upon it’s departure.
You might try to pretend that this is not (also) you, that you do not also bear this burden and all power and hope to your success on that fragile trajectory but this is just not how we are wired, how matter or energy or sentience and life itself functions. You can not defeat or master the loss and emptiness that absence and unrequited longing bring; you just can not measure or master the implicit and impending omnipresence of the unknowing nothingness that drives us all, in time, to dust.
My own heart is broken and constantly breaking, how else could I write?