They’re not as insidious as those that plagues Humbert Humbert. Nonetheless, they bring on a bout of creaks of the stomach. I try to evade them. Mazes I ruminate in my mind can only serve as a temporary distraction before the repetition of evasive tactics falter to my adept conscience. I romanticize. I dream of fantastical fantasies, in a faraway fairy land of warm embraces and unfaltering emotional bridges. And with these worlds, I ridicule myself. I thrash in a bout of fury – how could I linger still on such immature concepts? I pity myself, but I cannot pity my ability to dream. These dreams are infinitely times more beautiful and luscious than the cold stone of reality. It flows with everlasting warmth, warming the blood of my veins. And through all the crevasses of my soul, they caress me, they fondle with my floundering self.

If I could love I would love. But such a risqué subject may be better saved for the arts. Neatly tucked away, its wild passions forever hermetical to rationality. This volatile mixture of the two – romantic and rational – is a state of being, beyond the abstract. They are never in a state of peace. Their battles outstretch the fundamental war they have always declared. I am forever beguiled by romantic thoughts. Thoughts – ponderings – ruminations –  (if) actions – reality – laments – despair – (else) laments – despair – and repeat.

What if I say it? Oh no, it’s too soon.

This surreptitiousness is the foundation of obsession. For there is no other choice but to dream, to pathetically ponder. Oh a tip of my head, a languid gaze into who knows what. But a dip of her head – oh quelle attirance! But oh the irony of thought, these repetitious thoughts, transform my desires into one for a concept rather than the person.

Why do I write this? Perhaps I have lost confidence in myself, in my ability to know myself. The waves distort my own reflection, for I throw countless rocks in my fits. So stop throwing rocks. But I cannot stop pummeling my face with the rocks of reality. Then keep on throwing! Then I enter a trance-like state of hopeless hopes. The evasion of reality is a crime against myself, against life. But why do I throw rocks? Have I fallen in love with self-sabotage instead of my conceptual dreams?

Pertaining to the situation, the fundamental question is the following: has fate pitied my soul with lovely companionship and mutual adoration? or has it generously endowed me with a restocking of philters? It’s splendid in either circumstance so why bother? Should I be concerned about its future? If romance cannot be desperately mushed together into 13 five-year plans, then rational relationships can certainty follow order. For if marriage is a social contract, without the expected glitz of gleeful romance, it would work delightfully with her; – note the conditional.

It’s no longer a quest of knowing the self. It’s rather the obsession of planning. I’d focus on the emotional connection rather than the technical union of a couple. This planning for emotional development must be soberly saved for the arts. Maybe I’ll find the waters less murky. Or maybe I’ll diligently stir the mud. Oh, of course, stirs and rock throws at once.

Clear up, my dear! see the sunlight yonder!

May you find grace with her soul, the purity of the light.

For the sun is warmer than any incandescence. 

Envelop thee! caress me!

Dream mit Sie!



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