I spend 30 hours a week in a beige cubicle. On a wall right behind the computer screen that I stare at for 28.5 hours a week I have Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII tacked up.
I do not love you as if you were a salt rose,
or topaz or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off
I don't know what all the symbols of this poem meant to Neruda, and not all of them mean anything to me. I have re-read this poem and researched the imagery several times. It remains, not fully known, because the mystery of it is important.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I confessed to friend that I am still quite lost and spend most of my free time seeking sex. I don't find sex as often (or as well) as I seek it. I spend a lot more time than I'd like going on dates with people I'm not overtly enthusiastic about because I am turned on by pursuit, by sex, by mystery. The mystery of others is becoming less and less important to me though. If I cannot love my own mystery, how I can I love anyone or anything else's?
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
...Seeds are blest, my mystery whispers to me...
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I spoke of weariness and it was suggested I write myself love letters. I think that's a wonderful, glorious idea. I am, after all, a Master of love letters. I do, after all, adore writing them. The people to whom I have written love letters in the past were new. I am an obvious neophile. I feel lucky to turn with the moon and the days. I am new to myself often, too. I have learned quite a lot about myself since "getting" the things I spent a few post-college years working to get. My mythology becomes more complex and honest with the passing of time.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
I will spend this weekend celebrating mystery, life, Passover with family, and all the spring buds Everywhere.