March 22nd, 2004
107996197365933091
All Is Full of Love
The world is a big place, given. Any moment has a myriad of sides. On a toss, which one lands facing up is roulette of body chemicals, past experiences, and music. I’m awake. My roommate is snoring. It’s four-thirty in the morning. I’m hungry. BUT, I’m listening to Bjork (layered with a disgusting amount of line noise and feedback from cheap headphones and circuit crosstalk). So, I’m content.
This many-sided artifact through which we perceive “reality” is a gem; a jewel, a crystal of perspectives, like an imperfect prism that is cast in the sand and we’re forced to look through before perceiving events, corporeal or external. A Fate’s eye that filters and enhances every signal we process. It’s welded to our senses, we can’t remove it. But, it isn’t chaos that completely governs the alignment of this destined bauble. We have free will, and can alter our attitude, repress/enhance feelings internally or with chemicals, etc. It is indeed quite personal, and a gift… a right no one can remove or truly force upon you. So, we’re entitled to “always look on the positive ‘side’ of things” if we wish, or just the opposite. Anyway, unnecessary restatement of the obvious, back to my case study…
I am listening to Bjork. I am in a good mood, if not a passive and calm one. I have a girlfriend. I don’t know what to make of that entirely, as so many past experiences have put knicks and weights on my crystal, so when thinking about love, it is more likely to land on a certain subset of sides. But that’s age: growing and evolving that jewel from the unthinkable two-dimensional figure at birth of life and death. I love my girlfriend, but I don’t know what that means exactly. However, analysis of that subject is so well travelled that it’s almost inconsequential to further debate it. The point is love is an emotion, and a choice. A choice I make for cascade of reasons, a stream of angel feathers falling over a waterfall without substance, a beautiful thing connecting souls in ways so advanced and pure it drives us to madness.
In music, in silence, far apart, or touching my lover’s face, it is a heated knife that slowly grazes the back of my neck as I gasp. I want her, and it is a noble and redeeming part of what makes a man. The smell of paper skin and the ache behind any stranger’s eyes, I’m lost to be able to make sense of the dream. That’s good.
