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©gianni1999


I'm in a twisted mood, smoking cigarettes down into my feet, gulping wine like it is blood. I'm trying to describe love. Not love yesterday. Not love tomorrow. Not love for Webster. Love that is right now. Like the cigarette hanging on the ashtray, ignited, burning, changing and threatening to burn out. Threatening passively, because ending is what it is built to do. Not this fucking bullshit romantic flowery love, but real love- love the force of nature- love as the evil joke that only gets played on the lucky unfortunates who happened to trip over it. There's nothing constructive about love, it's a fucking wrecking ball. It wrecks like a big brainless iron sphere, breaking down beautiful well planned sturdy buildings for no other reason then that's what it's there for. Yes, the other side. A better half? I'm sure it is there. But that is not loves paramount goal- it strives for nothing so good and simple- that's just not in its character. Support, togetherness, kindness, tenderness, understanding. . . all the rest, you can have that without love. Love is one step higher, one step lower. Both at the same time. Love is beyond insanity- it is insanity with no hard evidence, with nothing you can put your hands on to explain it. Real love has no course of rehabilitation and those infected would cringe from anecdote. Love is a weary wagon hauling nitroglycerin over a pitted dirt road. I'm awed by the crushing power of it. I'm astounded by the way something with no hands and no muscle can crush your throat without even trying. Those who are really in love, those who know what it is, know that it's a hungry sharp toothed mouth that will gnaw at the meat of you until it is full, and it never is, and we are bound and gagged and couldn't struggle even if we wanted to, and do want to sometimes but can't because we want to be consumed- because letting yourself be eaten is the only noble thing life has to offer. It's the only reason to keep your veins closed beneath your skin. The giving up of all reason, traded for this wispy thing that is as heavy and real as all the steel ships in the world times infinity and is as invisible as the shadow of a laughing ghost in a dark room. That after being cut to pieces and left on a dry warehouse floor our dead eyes would roll around picking up dirt and find each other and come to life- mine to look into yours, yours to look into mine- and from that look would be given frozen life again. That I could kill you, and I've tried, and your corpse would stand up and throw its arms around me. That you could kill me, and you've tried, and my corpse would find a way to press its mouth to yours. That it is pompous and stupid to think that any of it is our choice. That it is laughable to pretend that we found each other, or that we fell in love. It was already there, we met and discovered it like finding a secret tunnel that connects two separate cities. From there you can flood the tunnel, fill it with dirt, or rip it to shreds, but it doesn't matter. Because the two cities now know how to get to each other, have seen each others twinkling lights, breath taking skylines, the violent parts of town, the poverty and homelessness- and they will go through the rest of their existence trying to join- for no reason other than that's just the way it fucking is. So, I fucking love you. And saying that is like pressing a gun into the roof of my mouth while dancing dressed to kill in a high ceiling ballroom. You don't know which way it's going to go, you don't know if the top of your head is going to come apart to shower the floor with the colors of what you were, or if you're going to get to finish the dance and clap politely to the band until the next song starts up- and you just don't give a shit anyway. You want either one because that is the way weak, brave and inspired humans are built. That is the way people who want the thin slice of meaning life has to offer are forced to act.



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