I have, it seems, made something of a life in words and the variously disambiguating compositional artefacts of language or thought (and other such conceptual melodies) with which we each and all make our ways and narrative meanings in or as this world, but I have not found happiness. There is an irremediable darkness here that as an endemic hollow in this experience of living, and though – try as I might, I just can not escape.
It is a strange thing that even these precious threads of metaphor and symbolic abstraction that I cherish so dearly also seem destined to fail me when I feel (and fear) I need them most. A little like some impossible love and treasured friendship that might only ever be indirectly known, the absence of meaning or matter and emotional connection invokes both a profound longing and that wistful resonance that uninhabited memories of pure fantasy or imagination must always incur.
Unwritten words and unrealised conversations or feelings like metaphorical sapphire moments on distant tropical beaches remain most beautiful of all because in their calm silence and promise of improbable love we all know, deep down, that even if they weren’t possible, they might have been, could have been anything. In a mirror of moments, a touching gesture or an unspoken miracle of patterned significance beyond words, paradox engulfs me. It is with this language, these thoughts and this fading light that the presence of absence becomes real and in this reveals itself, again, as just that dark horizon and empty home of my own breaking heart.
There is a sweet and melancholy feeling here, a song in a minor key and it haunts me like memories of an impossibly beautiful face. I really must stop falling in love – it is killing me.