Love Has No Horizon — Morning Papers XIV

Across The Floodplains and Bearing Seas — Who is it, that we don’t ever dare to deceive?; Can love bear the empty place where another should dare to be too? Is love the final virtue — even if all cruelty declared itself to begin with love?

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When I see my Katy — my Katharine Hepburn that I plaster most lovingly around my works, I feel, what a jewel, to bejewel! Becalmed? — maybe.

They say love has no boundaries yet they often forget love has no horizon either; none who shall be adorned with its prickling and fantastical sensation know of what it’ll bring them in the end, not until it leaves it may seem to the sickly sum of it all.

Surrey to me — I’m not, my stations are often wrought with the bouts of Why? The thenceforth and therefrom. Love is not a total thing — in an idea — love is just a word, it is so minuscule to bear witness to from the outside, the extent of one’s love, or two beings authored by love, or share a fondness by the circuits of love — love of natures and of all pearls of wisdom; friends or enemies besotted by time and place, lovers damned or the marriage hedging the years as it does.

Who are men and who are we? To condemn another by the fashion of their loving to besotted upon another — if cruelty is like the caught, baited shark, that snarls aghast, trying to take back the bitter hand that aided in dredging its now sardonically gamesome body upon their crafted vessel, won’t cruelty try with all its fervent mightiness to do so? Is cruelty the spectator of love — indifferent to the toil it drives upon one? Just one, especially, when the love once so fond, goes so ultimately stark and dammingly cold?

So much within life is foretold in the days of foundlings — Newly birthed and bare of all aches and hurts; of all glee and gaiety. To be impassioned by the fates of their elders and their spouting mouths of the tales and tells of the adoration for the loving art, as a great romantic may so winsomely declare. Perhaps that desire is betted upon more heavily than all other hopes — therein lies the mystery and the cruelty of some love, at least you could call such things as Love in the layman’s terms in the beginning, whence it was, so starkly natural it seemed, to gravitate and stream out of you, like some pearlescent orb that ensnared the witless to this newly had act.

The reasons why it is, and then the reasons why it should be to remain as such — or if one feels the will to volunteer the need to question love. Question love, O; doesn’t that sound like something so sardonic and crass? Perhaps it is to some, as some will certainly take it that one;

Is it love when one channels another person through the person they see before them — the reminder of another, or is it mere imposing of a will they seemingly cannot abide by? That, I chillingly sport by the games of you, reader, to question it. Never can I find a firm solution, so go about your days, asking what is the daring of love; — even in the most unlikely places imaginable.

The chance of friendships across the heavenly seas — over the plates of tempestuous glass, is a sweetly painful one, but can be so remarkable for what it is, to even imagine itself into being. For even one to bear another, and all their pains and ills, and their goodnesses and daring, to bear them not as an orphan after their first meeting, but to abide by them, as the most steadfast friendships dare also — Isn’t that so remarkable, now. Now, it can be so. The temptations to back away so suddenly are even greater, yet some endure — I care so much for that wisdom, that can’t ever be fully explained, or rather shouldn’t be. Let such brilliance be the unexplained but known magic of this world now upon you; let it be —

Across The Floodplains and Bearing Seas — Who is it, that we don’t ever dare to deceive?; Can love bear the empty place where another should dare to be too? Is love the final virtue — even if all cruelty declared itself to begin with love?

Love has no horizon, no destination in what it shall hedge, only leading you on and on by desire and hope; Love has no mark, only by your expectations that mark you thence a love may ensnare, entangling you further into a theretofore unbeknownst pit of despair — are the marks showing before the bitter cord is cut, or at the moment when it is cut, or soon after — willing to cough you up as the served naked corpse from some practiced hell.

Love is a desire to be enfranchised by a tell-tale desire; if one is also not too biding in where they cast their anchoring lot, the expectations may become too vast to be true.

But this is my ungainly place to spout it all, in the maddening tumblings of morning thought, and especially morning breath — no peachy kisses.

I supposed a warranted worry of love, is how quickly it will become enflamed with the debris we all keep within us — when it will flare and die away back into the shoddy dimness of reprieve from the acts of being beloved or giving it away to the beloved. At least, in the daring erotic love; friendships, however dim the hope may be at time, may endure it further, but if both are infused into the relation, a god could only know what shores it shall bring the pair to.

However, if we are hedging ourselves in the bespirting madness of enthralling love — if we dare our precious selves into the respect and kindness of another, we may dare find that love; Yet there is no firm promise— like us, and like the climate, love shifts its shades day-to-day, whether it will collapse, rendering us chewed and bitter, or whether it’ll endure is a force to be lived as and through; Or it’ll leave us utterly dumbfounded in the indifferent, middle line. You can only know if you dare to know it so.

Love as always wise — I spout. True I wish it to be the certainty. I’m letting you interject your own reasons and promises there. Love be your own.

Ta-ta now, until we meet again, on some sunny day. Your Doctor, over and out.

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