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“I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it.”― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
It is a Curious Thing, to be Loved by Eros
It is a Curious Thing, to be Loved by Eros
Some days, I am a hollowed-out piece of wood—a marionette with its strings wrung high, dancing at the whim of my puppeteer. There is a sense of tranquillity that cannot be replaced, as I go through the everyday motions. I laugh and smile and skip; I pirouette through conversations and sing until I can no longer breathe. I write and write about love, but words cannot replicate a feeling. I have never experienced it, so I wait patiently for mine to come.
I can only speculate that when it happens, your mind is filled with ecstasy. There are wings that unfurl from your back, and you become an earth-bound angel. Your eyes fill with tears that roll slowly down your cheeks, blurring the realities between joy and grief.
Perhaps that is not love, but suffering. I imagine love to be an orchid flourishing through the cracks of a rusting train track—its petals scalding in the heat and wilting with the frost. He hands me a singular blossom, and we walk together through the narrow alleyways in comfortable silence. I imagine that it is unconditional and pure. Something that is both simple and layered with comfort.
I have been told that love hurts, but if it brings so much pain, why do so many willingly hurl into its depths—drowning and drowning again? Your lungs fill and expand with murky seawater. It implodes your body and engulfs your brain. Your throat is dry and saturated with salt—you are choking on coal and soot. Their heart harmonizes with yours as though there is a metronome wedged within your souls, and it ticks away until you can no longer differentiate between yours and his.
I can only speculate that when it happens, your mind is filled with ecstasy. There are wings that unfurl from your back, and you become an earth-bound angel. Your eyes fill with tears that roll slowly down your cheeks, blurring the realities between joy and grief.
Perhaps that is not love, but suffering. I imagine love to be an orchid flourishing through the cracks of a rusting train track—its petals scalding in the heat and wilting with the frost. He hands me a singular blossom, and we walk together through the narrow alleyways in comfortable silence. I imagine that it is unconditional and pure. Something that is both simple and layered with comfort.
I have been told that love hurts, but if it brings so much pain, why do so many willingly hurl into its depths—drowning and drowning again? Your lungs fill and expand with murky seawater. It implodes your body and engulfs your brain. Your throat is dry and saturated with salt—you are choking on coal and soot. Their heart harmonizes with yours as though there is a metronome wedged within your souls, and it ticks away until you can no longer differentiate between yours and his.
They say that love is blind. They say that you have a better chance of gouging out your eyes and feeding them to the crows than to see clearly. They say he’ll rip your heart to shreds and strike a branding iron to your chest. Your flesh will char and melt, but your mind will continue to be muddled with nectar and roses.
If love is so cruel, then I must say I prefer death.
If love is so cruel, then I must say I prefer death.
Hermes on His Way to Deliver a Billet-Doux
Hermes on His Way to Deliver a Billet-Doux
“A penny for your thoughts?” the girl asked the boy.
“No,” he answered, “but perhaps for a dime.”
She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, wringing her dainty hands behind her back until they turned pink as a cherub. “May I ask why?”
He laughed and responded, “My thoughts are more costly than that of an average fellow. If you wish to see, then you must be willing to pay the price.” Tipping his cap towards the girl, he winked in her direction. “If that is all, then I must say good day to you, missus.”
Walking briskly across the cobblestone streets, he hummed a cheery tune under his breath; his fingertips fluttering lightly against the picturesque shops that lined the alley. She watched curiously, as he whisked out an ivory envelope from the inside of his jacket, dusted it off, and continued along his merry way.
“No,” he answered, “but perhaps for a dime.”
She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips, wringing her dainty hands behind her back until they turned pink as a cherub. “May I ask why?”
He laughed and responded, “My thoughts are more costly than that of an average fellow. If you wish to see, then you must be willing to pay the price.” Tipping his cap towards the girl, he winked in her direction. “If that is all, then I must say good day to you, missus.”
Walking briskly across the cobblestone streets, he hummed a cheery tune under his breath; his fingertips fluttering lightly against the picturesque shops that lined the alley. She watched curiously, as he whisked out an ivory envelope from the inside of his jacket, dusted it off, and continued along his merry way.
Here Lies Aphrodite and Ares
The Otherwise Unknown Tale of Astraeus and Eos
He and her remain;
As consorts of the chamber
Bathed in a whispered melody
That lingers quietly in the lonesome air
She in the center stands tall,
Her ethereal visage embellished
With chilly marble and vanity
The twin angels of Fear and Fury
Crumble beneath her feet,
For beauty is cruel
But the Goddess herself is crueler
Beside her is the God of War,
Whose sword bleeds ichor
And heart rots with flesh and decay
He thirsts for death
For battle, for chaos
For arrows to strike true
But most of all, for pain
He, a wicked boy
She, a heartless girl
Their sins intertwine and make them whole
Leaving them with everything but virtue
As consorts of the chamber
Bathed in a whispered melody
That lingers quietly in the lonesome air
She in the center stands tall,
Her ethereal visage embellished
With chilly marble and vanity
The twin angels of Fear and Fury
Crumble beneath her feet,
For beauty is cruel
But the Goddess herself is crueler
Beside her is the God of War,
Whose sword bleeds ichor
And heart rots with flesh and decay
He thirsts for death
For battle, for chaos
For arrows to strike true
But most of all, for pain
He, a wicked boy
She, a heartless girl
Their sins intertwine and make them whole
Leaving them with everything but virtue