Saturday, February 24, 2007

Love's Work

The elegance of the empty space can only be fulfilled by the mythology that comes immediately after the mourning when the creation stories are all over and they turn into birth oracles. It is the irony and the humour what contains all the sufferings in the world and the obiquous line in which death and life are one and the same bequesting immortality to the world only. In the dark pangs of the waters I feel faltering behind the beauty that is supported on the edifice of anger and anxiety, it is only in this oblivion of the traumatic events that the story-telling makes sense, it is only in the total givenness to the present tense that this can at all look toward anywhere.

And today sitting by myself and composing autobiographies for epic anti-heroes, with only the necessary charm to make up for disappointments, such irrational fear at the world-encompassing pain that dares not look out the window lest it can hear that voice coming from a far and yet one can still cry, for the only thing still worth crying for, for his own place in the next world. The twilight of the empty space can be filled only this precarious and sacred anxiety, with this longing that unfolds no less than it disappears in the nihilistic line of the conversations, of the loving misunderstandings that cause more sorrow than illusion.

This is love's work. The security that everything can be lost tomorrow and that the only possibility for this moment is a blend of loyalty intimately bound with unpromising present tenses. The blind adherence to this foundational principle by which the empty space does make sense only because it knows not to differentiate between a thought, a being and a feeling; and only human person and not grandiose narratives can make this possible. Thinking can only be the totality of one's being or never be at all, even if you can never succeed in communicating with anybody so that your life navigates away in describing paintings and in setting boats and times into the right paths... the paths of no direction.

There's only one aim in sight... the Augustinian manifold sense of the desire for everything of this world as it is nowadays and such pessimistic devise is the only possible expectation, that of the return to the original creation story that can uncannily pierce through the traumas and the dreams in order to realize a human person that doesn't necessitate to think exclusively in negative terms and only there he can be at home. Yet this should never happen, it must only become a possibility among many. Love's work is this memory but in exclusively human terms, in allegoric and festive terms. Love's fate however, is the expectation that makes sure the work is never completed and when the lover dies the show of the world must go on lest he was no lover at all.

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