this isn’t so much about the skull of st. valentine in a lonely basilica with a label bearing the name "st. valentine"on it. nor do i feel the need to discuss the 60 percent markup on anything red or pink or flower that may be considered arbitrarily, beautiful sold to masses of lazy lovers. and this isn’t a heart wrench or a cry that you hear at night. this isn't all the bitemarks. the scratches. the ripping or the tearing. this is love. it's truest essence, and what it means to me.
oh sing muse!
love is so fucking real, right!? like just this eruption in spirit and tone. it is the one thing in this world that nature cannot replicate in any other species or in itself. no other form, other than this imperfection can create this attachment to LOVE…holy. pure. just all bones and teeth and insecurities. and try as they may, it finds no home in all of the clever marketing for a day sprung only from a cash grab of obligations and forced marriage proposals based on peoples NEED to feel and show love. be that for love or lust or behind the backs of love not felt any longer.
i’ve personally never understood valentines day. and this isn’t from the dead black space where at least one faint chamber still pulsed a beat on that damn dull dumb drum. maybe it's where i contain any optimism... maybe the foolish optimist, who feels he gets this one seemingly universal understanding. perhaps, it's the hopeless romantic in my bones that poetically draws on this intrinsic desire, giving it such a holy voice… or maybe it's total naïveté … but i always felt that LOVE was meant to be felt all the fucking time. not just on the day they tell you to feel. but from sunrise to sunset... back in baby's arms. wrapped inside of each other.
all the religions. the arts. the songs. all of war… all stemming from this one desire, to love and be loved.
to understand. to be understood.
to share... even within misery. believing that the sharing gets you through the cruelty of a planet of thieves and falsehoods.
of course, as everything else, we have perverted the ethos behind the emotion. attributed it's embrace to characters not able to return love. mixed the truth in it with our sex. hobbled love's stupid legs with outrageous wounds of limitations. perhaps love has been set love atop such vicious pedestals that those honeyed gains, never to be acquired… a mountaintop only for the gods we could never make of ourselves.
but the very essence of truth in love still reverberates through our hollow ribcages… we want to express ourselves through someone else. we want to scream in those canyons that another person helps us create and hear that echo come screaming right back at us!
we want/need to feel
that dull beating drone.
ravage us.
pound inside of us.
leave us shuddering.
begging for more.
poetically, it has been said, and repeated ad nauseum, that “tis better to have loved and lost, than never have loved at all.” to which i spit in said general direction. for to me, to lose, even for an instant the constant in this base emotion, is a separation greater than soul from body. LOVE is ALL. it is breath. it is light... do you fucking hear me!? LOVE IS FUCKING ALL.
pure.
holy.
from my solitary personal standpoint… me on the lip of this bridge, gazing into the abyss and feeling her taught glare right back into my own… i have waved my white flag years ago simply because i can't deal with this new take on modern love/ modern romance and i have very cleverly destroyed myself ever since i last bridged the gap between loneliness and possession of lioness. to lose that reverberating echo come back my way one last time... utter fucking destruction.
though ive felt brushes with the emotion several times since then... once a very close call to the edge again... something though was absent... because i have felt love tiee to railroad tracks and send a bullet train over me. i have stood in the ring with love, and had it take my stupid block off. i fucking know, when it's a motherfucker... and i beg for the entire careening effect to smash into me again and make me fucking hurt so that i know i am alive again.
it's sick. it's damaged. but if it doesn't kill me... i can't tell if it's real.
same token. to be led to where i am, trollops in summer dresses, left bleeding alongside the road... that shit wasn't real either. and it totally wasn't worth it. and it was only angels with dirty faces.
so, you know... toss up i guess! a real damned if you do sort of ordeal.
like everything else, it doesn't always make sense and sometimes regret either way are the same chains you forge.
my wish for you, lovers... fucking feel it today and let it remind you how it should be all of the time. on the 15th... the 21st. may...July... september... keep it alit.
visceral.
breaking.
and try not to let it destroy you.
