Tuesday, December 20, 2011
i don't know how we started living at 100 mph in the humidity and heavy breathing or why our lives are now a metaphrastic version of ourselves. there are acres and acres and they are made more lovely by drinking the sun and losing ourselves more and giving ourselves more to the night and moon and this ravine. i wonder if there is more space between me and you or me and myself. the perfect contours of your face look baltic but i know they're not, it's just the cerulean film of the light.
It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station, and the death or the meeting of Beethoven, Tomas, Tereza and the cognac), but it is right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.
i watched you reading what i wrote about you, and you looked at me and said it was the best thing that you'd ever read. that you didn't know those things about yourself or how i see them every day, every second i'm with you. i can't believe that you didn't know them already, but if what i can give you is the assurance that i do, and that i believe that many people do, i will give that to you. i feel inadequate when i try to put you into words, but since that's the main thing i have ever had an affinity for i think i should at least try. because if i don't, what am i giving you? nothing. and i can't stand the thought of not giving you everything i have, even if it is just words that come to me as naturally as breathing. i feel like i am giving you my own chaos, and if that's ok with you it's ok with me. it is consistent with how i understand my own life. somehow you never see it and it fills me with incredulity i can't understand, but that's ok because understanding what is going on when i think of you is the first thing i gave up on, and i would rather find destruction trying to figure it out than not try to figure it out at all.