Life disputes its insistence, as if life is an entity. By intense struggle to conquer some image, to untie fate. In all its majesty, it becomes flat, it resists its ideals. And in loving a creature, one endorses survival. I believe intimacy, where it travels into ousia, becomes a cosmic challenge. A woman can give all, her mate must be receptive. A man might beg, his mate must be with spirit. When two envision sameness of dynasty, they might raise clouds, envelope skies, enjoy a cryptic course. In adoring a creature, one finds self. In cherishing a soul, a mirror becomes more revealing. We dare not speak about those joys—unraveled, despite deaths. I sensed infatuation, an emphatic state of intensity, to idealize a beloved, such wretchedness; or to attain to one’s worship, made uneasy by reception. I needed to see a human. This is deep reality. Maybe to pet a gelada, eat rice, and meditate through darkness—or to be a priest, sweating Jesus, thrown into battles—nothing is easy. I would imagine a nun, long for a geisha, desiring a caring figure—a little confusing. And I listened as she described her soulmate, she was pleased with being able to do so, a dependable identity, to know for characteristics, even nuances. I was at a shrine—some space inside—if only I were human.
