A description of life/love:
Letter to the unnamed presence (excerpt from Tales from the Marble Room)
You look into my eyes, unmoved. Like you’re looking at something or you’re looking for something. I don’t know what it is you’re seeking.
I want to tell you many things, to share with you the meaning of life, to seek out answers and to be understood everytime I wonder about the world.
I want to ask you without expecting an answer, but another question in return.
I want you to show me how the rivers flow upstream, if they ever do. I want you to want my con-fusing presence here, in this micro-universe we share.
I can only hope that you read my wonder and awe at the world through my eyes. I can only guess if you see my quest to seek freedom of the soul.
I can only feel this burning vitality to ask and explore if you are here to tend to the fire. Perhaps my true mission is to learn how to burn without you looking at me, without this reciprocity that keeps slipping through my fingers.
Is life truly real only when we are love? And what is love? When you strip it away of any conscious structure, you can offer a definition of love as being. Existing. That means there is no singular love. I am love here and now, with you. I am love there and later, with another. I was love then and there, in a previous moment, with my mother father sisters and others.
If love does not obey the laws of society, morality, generalizations, rigidity and confinement of cultural scriptures, then love simply is. I allow to feel love because I am love. On a deep, soul-originating level, it is harmony. But when I push that love from the soul into the body, into the physical realm, into reality as it is perceived in a daily practicality of doing, it becomes chaos.
So in here lies a conflict: between living, being as pure soul love, and doing, acting, operating as practical love, in the external world that surrounds each living organism.
Love requires translation (for me). Or, I should say, there is a need of translation between the soul and the body. There is this disconnect which I cannot exactly point towards, to see how they can connect.
Love is here, in me, around me. I can see it when I write to describe it. I can experience it freely. I believe I am God. Then, when the roles change and I become this human, this woman, this athlete, this model, this pupil, this child...it dissapears from me, like it was just a dream I cannot access freely and consciously.
