Dear ***,
You are well, I hope?
Some thoughts from this part of Europe.
"Svi smo takvi. Krijemo ljubav, tako ju i
ugušimo" - from the book that I sent you, Death and the Dervish, by Maša Selimović.
This short sentence has so affected me, it sinuously wonders
through my brain, and comes back at night to haunt me. The horrible thought has
stuck too firmly to my heart to be discharged easily. And now I am sure that I
am somehow smothered, or somehow dying among the living. because what is life
without love (and I don't mean romantic love necessarily) - love
as a force that engenders life, the driving force without which all is dry and
meaningless?
And I find myself incapable of it, I have maybe never loved
anyone. ?? what a terrible thing to say and yet it came out like a monster from my mouth.
I have yearned for- possessively wanted - admired from distance, yes. but
loved?
it's a depressing
thought. and I remember I had a lot of it (love) , but I was incapable of
letting it out on the open, of letting it breathe, of opening the windows of my
horrid little house where I sat with my eyes turned within, towards myself. and
maybe I am the only person I can talk to. and this solipsism has created a sort
of an inability to truly converse or hear
the other. the other has, throughout the years, become the Other, with the “O”
growing wider and wider until it became a horrible abyss: the Great Darkness of
which I understand nothing, I just stand in front of it aghast or scream at its incomprehensibility...or even slight boredom?
I have always thought that at some point the love that I
feel will be visible to everyone, it will pour out of me in streams of white
shimmering light and all will be good and we will live happily ever after. but
this terrible quote from the most horribly beautiful book “Derviš
i smrt” aka “Death and the Dervish” – and of course, it doesn’t have to be
true, but it hit me with a kind of urgency – that we smother love by hiding it,
hit me where it hurts most, and it got me thinking: maybe the supposed love
that I feel has passed through inevitable metamorphosis…how could I call love what I could not share, how could I think myself elevated above others in believing in the depths of my own emotions, when, as soon as they were born, they would come back to me to stand in front of the judge of all judges -me - and could never pass the test, and be allowed to open the doors and live in freedom. ?all the time love has (maybe??) been losing its lustre,
tarnished by years of my smothering embrace. I won’t give it to you – nor to
you – nor to you – and…and in the end I was left alone, and my golden bird
has been so adulated and cosseted, pressed tightly onto my heart that -
have you not an idea what happens when
things are pressed too tightly, even to one's heart? you find that they have
been dead by your own hand, and you didn’t even hear when its heart stopped, so
fiercely were you defending it from others. oh god, such depressing thoughts.
why am I saying this to you - i don't know. and I hope you
won't demean it by thinking that I'm being romantic or something. I wish. all
the real romance I’ve ever managed to accrue stayed closely attached to my mind or slight
trembling within myself – except from those earlier days that I now remember as
being my knightly adventure into the World of material things – but those days
are gone.
Primjedbe
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