Monday, February 13, 2012
It consumes your every thought as you descend into its abyss, which promises happiness, but seems to bestow more misery than it absorbs. It infuses you with passion, a lust for life, an impatience for everything you knew before, until, palms itching, body burning, breath labouring, you stumble outside, compelled to kiss your lover, to paint with furious brush strokes, to write in an untidy scrawl; you can escape it no more than you can escape the skin which stretches over your bones.
Love is a tyrant, an unrelenting ruler, never wavering from its demands, but as you obey, it rewards. It may twist and pull you, and poke you and torture you, driving you over the brink of madness, but when you look back to that time Before, it seems that you have since accomplished great deeds. Passion is the only cure for the insane, and though your madness drives you to lie naked beneath the stars, it is love, the grateful tyrant, who urges you to take the moment and immortalise it; thus ideas become revolutionary, thus do emotions become poems, and thus do the stars live on for eternity in art. Thus do the dreamers live.