Experience concludeth nothing universally
Love.
'Amore mio' is majestic.
'Te quiero' mocks me. A simple phrase, nothing noble about it.
'Love' evokes nothing in me.
Who cares about a word anyway.
its linguistic variations make different impressions on me.
Evokes pieces of the whole, or perhaps they aren't connected at all?
'Amore mio' is majestic.
Like an operetto sung from the stomach.
Real, heavy and dabbed in red blood and drama.
'Te quiero' mocks me. A simple phrase, nothing noble about it.
Intentionally withheld affection of which I am undeserving. Uninvited.
Always someone else's life, even when I was mumbling te quiero.
'Amen atom xosh dave', and I am lost in an exotic place and projected sentiments.
I know I am the receiver of this hauntingly exquisite thing which I should be feeling.
Jealousy and desperation mixed in those soft sounding words of youth.
'Love' evokes nothing in me.
Have I read and written so much about it that its meaning has beome diluted?
Must I change my linguistic register so that I can feel again?
Hélène Cixous writes:
"My love, you know when I write 'my love' I don't mean that you are mine.
But that I am yours [je suis moi à toi]."
Who cares about a word anyway.
Love is no big truth.
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