(004)

There was once a time for me when the words of each book become no longer the testimony of the author, a prose agonized over and laboriously tended to- but the same words, written over and over, pages filled with different structure, intonation and verse declaring the same thing again and once more. The same words filling each page, each chapter whispered my secret as though each tree and sunrise was because I love you, each laugh was the explosion of myself to you. 'I love you', as if the world was as in love as I, as if each page, and the ink from which these words were made of were all declarations of my love. That's how it was. For three years I read many books: hundreds, even, but saw none of it. All the words were replaced with you. When I left it was as if a floodgate had opened, and all the pain that your love had blinded me from came crashing in. Your love struck me again and again, drowning me in my own ignorance as you continued your own inscience elsewhere.