à quoi ça sert l'amour

pourquoi je ne peux pas le comprendre?
pourquoi je ne peux pas le trouver?
peut-être ce n'est pas pour moi.
peut-être je dois me coucher.
vraiment dans ce sommeil,
facilement je peux l'oublier.


journal post entry on 17 february 2002

tell me something about wildness. the hem of my dress that scrapes the floor and kisses my heels hides the impatience in my stride, which speaks the secret language of legs parting forward, one after the other, as i pace back and forth in this little room. the sway of my arms appear to be as meek as my hands are, but they cant wait to spread like eagle's wings and play the songs of birds and crickets that enchant my days and nights. my breasts heave with every word that my heart hopes to hear as it beats like a pounding drum summoning magic powers of an entranced shaman. i am filled with eagerness to the brim and my parted lips are the only thing that eases my breathing. by now you should have noticed my excitement, my dear champion.

is it something like when i move my hips like the trees sway when zephyr passes by? if those trees could leap, they would be dancing like gypsies, twisting their trunks, and clapping their twigs like tambourines. i would be dancing with them and the larks would be singing us songs. we will wait for the moonrise and recite incantations by the fire, until the nightingales join us. the rain will fall, lightly like magic dust, and all who know about the night's passion will glow like a multitude of fireflies when they fall upon our bare skins. we would not know a lord from a serf. we would not know man from tree or bird. we would not know pride from shame. we would not know weariness. when the morrow comes you will find all things as they were, but the birds and the trees and i will know a deeper truth.

would it be anything like riding a horse, galloping swiftly across a vast meadow? have i told you of the day when i met celestine, a mighty white steed, by the river. he was borne by his mother the river where i had found him. his father was a cloud that had lost his way to atlantis. celestine spoke to me of the stories of the many rivers, meadows, and mountains that his father had met along his journeys. like his father he was a wanderer. he had met most of the rivers, meadows, and mountains that his father spoke about, and he even have met more. he invited me to ride upon his back and promised me to let me meet all of them. his coat was as soft as the clouds against my skin and he rode like the wind.

could it be the same as speaking about virginity? at a time when i didnt know what it is, a goddess spoke to me about it like it were a flawless diamond. time perfects that beauty, she said. a broken diamond is never beautiful and it would be a shame to let any man find it upon your hands. i never understood her words because i find it difficult to agree with her thoughts. i could not fathom how beauty can come undone, all because of a broken diamond, broken by love. that very day i opened my eyes and naivete was taken away, and then i tossed aside virginity along with it with much amusement.

is it like when i scream at the top of my lungs for so many reasons? like on the day i screamed with my mother because i had to be born into this world. like when my heart first knew pain, and the nectars of sorrow flowed from it and out of my eyes. like when i found out how winning felt. like when i was kissed by unbounded happiness. like when a green little insect hopped onto my face. or perhaps, like the day when life will spring out from the passage between my own two legs.

or maybe, just maybe, it could be like the day when i first laid my eyes upon you? when i could not blink in fear that you were just a figment of a dream. my legs felt like melting wax. blood rushed through all of my being but my hands grew pale and cold. your presence can make a woman unlearn all that she knew. the fire in your eyes had reduced me into a mute statue for i was ashamed you would hear the quiver in my voice. i may have forgotten for a moment how to breathe. it was a moment when i froze with time, and i knew not of past nor future, but only of a present that was too glorious for words.

speak to me of wildness. a dreamer like me has yet to understand a lot of things and i am all too eager to begin. speak to me that which i do not know. speak, for i am listening.

journal post on 22 july 2002