On Loss

The problem with already having everything of importance in life... is that as you go about retirement, whiling away the days... the things you use to pass your time... some fools will think about as if these are things you care deeply for.

That is how you lose her. That is how you lose them. That is how loss emerges as a toy.

/

Work has been slow, and I struggle to stay awake in between the business. I still try to write you, daily. Others, with whom speech was not such a common activity, I would wish to write to less often. Some will no longer receive my thoughts - they avoid me.

I have been thinking about the many people in my life who are deeply disturbed by lost and found fancies in their lives. I don't feel such great disturbances. Then I remembered you, and your search for such weightlessness. I hope that whatever you have been doing... leads you closer to such freedom. Maybe when you arrive there, losing each other won't hurt as much, and then you won't avoid our closures.

Closures. Our closeness. Intimacy. It matters not how the last word ends, as much as it matters how we read into it our feelings associated with those words. And the words, they will always mean something different to different people.

/

I was speaking to an aesthete, in the rarefied company of another who is transparent and curious about all things. (Perhaps not all things, but in any event... ) We spoke of love, and our studies, and economics, and ease. There is no easier speech than the muttering of lovers, encroached within each other. Often lovers cannot attain such comforts, but some can, and those are the ones we cling to. Whispers of mundanities wrapped in wetted meat. Reflections on the spectrum of cleanliness observable across a few hours of structured movement. Discussions of what emotions each shift in weight precipitates. Pauses to touch without speaking. The preservation of cadences. On the edges of many modalities, haptics, olfaction, mouthfeel, fingerfall, saltlick, dreamtickle, and sleep.