“Oh, love isn’t there to make us happy. I believe it exists to show us how much we can endure.”

-Hermann Hesse, Peter Camenzind

So much of my life is a private reverie, a matter of heartfelt endurance, of braving the depths of my own love. For once it has been awakened it scarcely will retreat. Instead it will plunge into the depths of my being and fasten itself, with steel anchor, upon the ocean floor of my soul. I am 26, less than half a year from 27. I have now spent the majority of my adult life in love and longing. It wears on me, erodes at the hard edges of my personality, renders them soft and vulnerable, makes me less and less resistant to the tumultuous vicissitudes of life. They penetrate to my center, burn away the fragile veils that cover me such that I am left longing, melancholic, alone in my endless reverie. For in the end is there not a more destructive, more poignant force of nature than unrequited love? I wonder who among Earth’s people could return such profound exaltations to me.  It would not surprise me in the slightest if I spent the whole of my existence on this planet alone, sunken to the fathomless depths, writing the sort of poetry and novel that sings to the most hardened spirits. Alas I am no more privy to that information than Apollo is to the tender sight of the wan moon hanging over the sleeping meadow. 


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