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By Ali Date: 2007 Feb 09 Comment on this Work [[2007.02.09.17.43.8277]] |
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To paint the truth of love would be to dim it, diminish without meaning to-- it is a cosmic hand that illustrates the depths between two hearts-- and if this were a play, carefully wrought and reckoned, I would know exactly the lines to say, to cover the distance between realization and actualization, for every dream is sightless until it is otherwise. Both kinetic and potential, this séance cracks, and I feel much more than touch of a ghost-- but you are right, love cannot be owned: it is a thing of owning, a rulership all its own, a trepass of otherworldly persistance. And, powerless, I understand the labyrinth of tragedy, the fact mingled in mitigating circumstances, but survival-- I know it as a phoenix, well-acquainted with the ashes, of fire and ice, all at once contradictory, and nothing. I will not measure the evolution; love is more than a speech, but never is it an act--it is always an action, a supernova removed from consequence, a brilliant blight to silence, a deciphered asking, amid the taking-truth. Lingered in these moments that become a lifetime unto themselves, everything is suspended, poised beyond construction or deconstruction, words selected, examined, and revealed in the articulation of a precipice: unnamed as it was, love took up its existence in the embrace of silence-- an unsound, resounding, and I couldn't help to but to answer, when I was but helpless to hear. |