My love is a marionette. Dancing on threads that she never controls or owns and like blindfolds in darkness, that I never know. Life’s theatre of pleasure is a labyrinth of pain and were it not that we all refine in game and grammar such intricate strategies of haunted self-deception as pure aspirations to continuing existential tenure in this world, we might be set free to see it as it truly is: just so much flickering transience and hollow fiction.
We rarely if ever comprehend that we are all only as puppets and our desire for purpose and meaning or self-affirmation hands over the reins to an actual or symbolic other as pilot. This is why we are so easily misled – we want to be owned and controlled by an idea such that we absolve ourselves of responsibility or fear and then find ourselves living lives in regret of the choices we make when we were only ever partially-responsible for the menu of choices available to us.
Through all this pretence and psychological play we might shelter a little while in the warm occlusion of a fact that there is no more a puppetmaster than there is a self. If nothing else this is the gift that I received; alone and broken hearted in the cage I built as a memory of her beauty, a dark reflection and philosophical consolation of emptiness.