If you ask me who I am, I’ll tell you simply: I am no one in particular.
I am a collection of second-guesses hoarded by a brain that is desperately trying to know itself. My soul is a wild martyr imprisoned willfully in a stifling cage which limits its voice and gives no clear view of the outside. I’m sustained by spare ounces of hope extracted from a spiteful fruit, and when I drink, I see the scope of my potential, but nothing else comes to me. The hardships of my life are both my ultimate salvation and my executioner.
Are we so different?
Aren’t you as exhausted as I am?
To me, you are the most beautiful thing, because in your face I see the actions of my life fueled by more than just the mechanical efforts of self-imposed slave labor. The barriers of a structured reality ornamented with hollow set pieces bolted to the ground unravel and fall apart in your presence, and it amazes me.
I dream of a place where I can look toward the present as it is incessantly filed into the past, and where my weary feet can shuffle through the blur of events running through me with the strength to dismiss or reshape them into something filled with more substance than stagnation. Without you, I imagine I would follow the course of my life without question; but because of you, I see nothing as indestructible.
You instill in me the desire to know the secret of my existence before I existed: before I gathered a soul to myself and distilled a consciousness to make sense of it. Separation from permanence is not enough. You make me want to know the face of God in all aspects: to know the supreme love and divine will of my creation, as well as the necessary cruelty of its neutral operation. You build for me a floating alter for my curiosity to be celebrated in a private place where my innate fascination can be satisfied while reaping no penalties.
In you, I see the possibility of real freedom. In the light of your grace, my own is exposed, and for that I adore you and want to take you to your own higher place if it is also in my power to do so.
You make me conceive of the inconceivable, and who could not love a person who does this?
Am I wrong to think that the color of your soul could be complimentary to mine? That we could face the ceaseless eons together in all their frigid cycles of forgetting and relearning? That, with each other, we could learn to break the chains of our rationality and escape all velocity – past the edge of infinity – and when we finally reach oblivion, I could hope to walk with you arm-in-arm to the other side of it?