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You fall in love because you can’t handle time without it.
There are so many things you will never do again. Never be again. Never see again. Time is a tincture, a salve, a dressing for the wounds of memory, and time heals your broken past, or at least you think it does.
On the balcony of our little cottage on a gently rainy afternoon at the foot of the Pyrenees, I break down crying, inexplicable tears streaming, cracked dams. Unsettled by my sudden gloom, Ananda tries to crawl under my skin. I can’t explain myself to her, but she knows there is goodbye in my blood, a sickness I can’t help, worse than any fatal disease.
You fall in love to forget time’s ruthless tricks. Maybe time does not flow from A to Z, as scientists are finding out, but one day it will be there without you, and it will tell nobody about the power you felt when you were in love. Too soon to imagine, you will never have existed, and once upon a time never was. What happens to everything you ever felt? My keening for her voice is very real. I cannot deny the burn in my throat to see her just once, walking in the street, alone, perhaps glancing back in my direction, sensing shadows.
There is a brilliant observation among scientists, a little abstract they muse over, a cosmic poetry to ponder: that perhaps humanity is not here to explain why the Universe exists, but to help the Universe itself understand why it exists. I do my part: in my embrace with the romance writer I tell the sky the reason for our expanding plasma is the depth into which we can fall, into love. That 13.73 billion years of existence have happened so a fool like me can fall into the singularity of desire equal to being desired, felt so densely no reason escapes, no schedule, no responsibility, no property or profit.
These cosmic moments on the balcony of the little cottage in Gaja, with the romance writer desperately hoping a kiss can make my misery go away, cause my wounds to become hers. She touches these scars now, last night, or tomorrow when she reads this, and remembers what she wrote in her journal about this day in tears on the balcony:
“Sean reassures me about his feelings, but never about the future. The smell of fresh rain will always remind me of making love to him in Gaja.”
How can I forget this? How can she?
But where she lives, in the California desert, the rain is rare. It pours, sometimes, in between the erosion and erasure of time, scrubbing out her memories of my doomy tears in Gaja.
Far from her orbit I try to impregnate her clouds with sadness and sugar to refresh her memory. I am still a storm, raging, but she lives in constant dry light, baking every supple urge into brittle history, and these break, become dust, and sometimes she writes to tell me there is a grain of sand in her eye or on her tongue, and she wonders if
Also by seanie blue
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