Why did I stop? Or when did I lose it? Myself? These questions never occurred to me until I was asked. You don't see yourself when you change, but others always do. They always want you to be the same as they last saw or heard from you. While I--I've not for a while looked at the mirror. Is that sadness I see or a silent contentment, one which negates change and postpones consciousness? I better look again.
I must write about love. I didn't even know I stopped.
When do we stop speaking love? When do we stop using it in our sentences or imagining it in the middle of an insomniac night? Concerns, deadlines, cheap pleasures--these wound the very heart of love, killing its dream which in each case is what really love is. The day you cease aspiring for love, no longer able to recall that tremble and stupid anxiety of wanting to see a beloved, that is the day you have either "matured," as they say, or died. Ha! All the love in the world and none for the most of us!
I will write about love to get my share back.
I understand Camus now when he said that quantity trumps quality. Maybe that is why I was thinking about that earlier in the afternoon, having remembered writing about "being many" a four years ago. (You know you're dead as a writer when you quote yourself, i.e., Marcel. So I will not put the link.) Purposes, dreams, goals, ends, a job--having all these lead you into solitary confinement. You didn't even know you were walking toward your own death, wearing the very belt that the hangman will use. Now you can no longer be anyone else: you're a teacher and that's it, a student and no more, a salesman, employer, employee, etc. What difference does it make that you are whatever you are when you are only what you already are? I want to be all, or I want to be nothing because nothing could still be anything. But never a something. . . .
I used to write about love when I was still many. Love loves many things, never a few, wanting all.