Love is an automatic reaction.
A hysteria. Ensues about it.
You have no choice but to submit and hope that’s a place you want to be.
Rimbaud has said that “Love must be reinvented.”
This is the world of extreme possibilities we never reach. That we only think we can’t. Until a Madman shows us. Or it’s stumbled over.
We can only hope he or she is not a dictator. Because in this world, mainly its the despots that win. But sometimes…sometimes individual love is possible. And then you know of course, it is also possible, to die. (VWoolf)
It is not so much that it must be reinvented either, I think more perhaps Rimbaud means to say by analogy, that Love is so, so very rare that you can only hope you are fit for it or ready, and you never are, so we must think of ourselves in the future tense even, because the connection we have found in that of another is something so good… …we are willing to risk everything to have it, and have it forever.
Beyond good and evil.
Clinical as the machines of humming birds, wings sewing threads of propagation. You must create another. The Mandate of our true Mother. Beyond Law. And Reason. Is gone forever. Mind obliterated.
You have no choice about it. Nature. …To be commanded, must be obeyed. The place we want to be, can be shaped. But we are not rational animals on this. It is the purpose of our lives.
Clinical machines and Nature’s guise against it, against the oblivion and meaninglessness of the Cosmos. A sigh we will never have the ability to decode.
You pass into the soul of another. Oh but we’re Atheists.
Sure we are.