2001-06-16 - 3:37 p.m.

Reluctant languid listless liaisons. That is what this all is. A never ending nightmare, because I cannot find myself.

At around the end of April I went to Paris for no good reason at all. That's not to say that I went for no reason; or that I only itched to waste my 'preciously earned' savings. I only mean that now, upon reflection, I am an object of ridicule. Even to myself. Especially to myself.

Do you believe in love at first sight? I had been exchanging letters with someone regularly for about a year. I don't know how else to describe the correspondence. The facts are all that remain. I don't even know what it was that was spoken of. We did speak...on the telephone, on icq; I have a drawer beside my bed full of letters from her, from this person. But what about? It's not at all small talk...and yet I can't even begin to describe. One sentence will do: I thought that I had met my soul mate. This doesn't sound right either...I still think that she is the one, only a part of me is contorted - I'm being forced to realise that the chase is doomed.

Normally I would be able to give up; I would see. But she, particularly - she is my X. Has anyone ever let go of a dream, easily?

I went to Paris. I had been so afraid of that city beforehand...but I surprise myself. Maybe I am a natural at these things...but I didn't get lost. Not once. Maybe this means that I didn't really explore. It's probable, even.

Maybe you will tell me that everything is relative.

I arrived on a Saturday and we met on Monday, in the evening. It had been raining; no, it still was raining. She had brought an umbrella and was in black. As was I. A voice. It all began with a voice, calling out my name. How is it that the most important things in life can begin in such an innocous way? Why do they not scream out at us? Why was I not provided with a warning? I ask myself these questions only in jest; for by far the worse option would have been had we not met at all. As I am, now, on my funeral pyre, my heart burnt and seared - I can still seize random moments. But sometimes I begin to fall and my happiness that evening seems only an illusion.

I had no umbrella and it began to rain. After about five minutes of trying to convince her that I really didn't mind, we retreated into one of Paris' many cafes. The rain even relented to the point where I could begin to hear her voice. A voice that I had heard many times before - on the telephone, an answering machine, in all her letters to me...it changed again. I wanted to hang on to that voice...all her words were a cloud and I just wanted to sift through this cloud forever. All of this might make you think that I was focusing on sounds. How distant from the truth!

If each person has a presence....hers must remain indescribable. As is mine. I do not know myself, yet as soon as I saw her I realised; she is 'one of us'. She must be a part of me. I can't pigeon-hole her...she can never be placed anywhere. I only wanted her close to me, because her presence was so comforting. We spent 4 hours together. I don't know if I've ever been happier in my life. If I had known that I was never to see her again, what would I have done? I would have become a clown or a thief...or I would have begged Death with his scythe to steal both of our visages. Hers and mine. Three words. Three simple words. I have had, before. But never truthfully. I've never truly been 'in love' and this gnaws at me. I am an irritable, an irritated servant. A servant of love, you'll ask? Yes, I know how pathetic it sounds. Yet if the experience of falling in love is amongst the most precious - if it is a sanctuary open to all, regardless of intelligence or some other pre-ordained criteria...am I so pathetic?

I want to love and to be loved. Passionately. Other than that all is indefinite.

If Zeus has it in for me, I can only hold my head up defiantly with such words. 'Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited'. I don't want vengeance, or success, or fame, or health. Only to be able to fall in love with someone in my own way and have the feeling reciprocated with equal strength. If only for a short while.

troilus

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