11.30.2012
11.23.2012
And it was Love.
The magnitude of love she has is ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
No, he can't be real, she said.
It's as if their two hearts were created together. As if god put his in one half of the mold, and hers in the other, and shut them together to set so that the shape was complete only when they were side-by-side. It's almost like He tore them apart, placed them in a boy and a girl and put the fairytale in the tender hands of fate. The hearts would find each other.
And so came the moisture, ebbing and flowing nonstop from the very eyes he gazed into every night. She was undeserving, and she knew it, and she wanted to break her gaze from his so that he could set his eyes upon something equivalent to his perfection. Oh but he had placed his hand in her heart and she had not taken care of it as she promised she would. It made her cringe and it made her sick to her stomach and she prayed all the time that he would see this and the illusion of angelic perfection would finally be gone. But every day, the illusion got worse. She wished he saw that she was not at all what he was under the impression of but of course even if the sinful thought lingered for a second in his imagination he would dismiss it as irrelevant.
But the passion they had, together, it was unmatched. It was not something that could be re-created, mimicked in any form. The passion they had was red-hot and it was a flame that set the world ablaze with its depth and horrific perfection and everybody knew it as well. It was fed by the emotions that bled from their hearts for each other; for him it was his love and his sadness and how much it hurt but for her, oh it was love and cruel torture of the mere thought of her undeserving nature. They both knew it well but what was shed from their hearts fed the hungry fire that licked and writhed and glowed up and down and across their worlds to the point where it blinded them from any other sight and all they knew was their passion for each other. And it was love.
No, he can't be real, she said.
It's as if their two hearts were created together. As if god put his in one half of the mold, and hers in the other, and shut them together to set so that the shape was complete only when they were side-by-side. It's almost like He tore them apart, placed them in a boy and a girl and put the fairytale in the tender hands of fate. The hearts would find each other.
And so came the moisture, ebbing and flowing nonstop from the very eyes he gazed into every night. She was undeserving, and she knew it, and she wanted to break her gaze from his so that he could set his eyes upon something equivalent to his perfection. Oh but he had placed his hand in her heart and she had not taken care of it as she promised she would. It made her cringe and it made her sick to her stomach and she prayed all the time that he would see this and the illusion of angelic perfection would finally be gone. But every day, the illusion got worse. She wished he saw that she was not at all what he was under the impression of but of course even if the sinful thought lingered for a second in his imagination he would dismiss it as irrelevant.
But the passion they had, together, it was unmatched. It was not something that could be re-created, mimicked in any form. The passion they had was red-hot and it was a flame that set the world ablaze with its depth and horrific perfection and everybody knew it as well. It was fed by the emotions that bled from their hearts for each other; for him it was his love and his sadness and how much it hurt but for her, oh it was love and cruel torture of the mere thought of her undeserving nature. They both knew it well but what was shed from their hearts fed the hungry fire that licked and writhed and glowed up and down and across their worlds to the point where it blinded them from any other sight and all they knew was their passion for each other. And it was love.
11.12.2012
Winterson
"The Passion" - These struck me as truth.
"Hopeless heart that thrives on paradox; that longs for the beloved and is secretly relieved when the beloved is not there. That gnaws away at the night-time hours desperate for a sign and appears at breakfast so self-composed. That longs for certainty, fidelity, compassion, and plays roulette with anything precious.
Gambling is not a vice, it is an expression of our humanness.
We gamble. Some do it at the gaming table some do not.
You play, you win, you play, you lose. You play."
---
“To kiss well one must kiss solely. No groping hands or stammering hearts. The lips and the lips alone are the pleasure. Passion is sweeter split strand by strand.”
“Kissing in this way is the strangest of distractions. The greedy body that clamours for satisfaction is forced to content itself with a single sensation and, just as the blind hear more acutely and the deaf can feel the grass grow, so the mouth becomes the focus of love and all things pass through it and are re-defined. It is a sweet and precise torture.”
“Kissing in this way is the strangest of distractions. The greedy body that clamours for satisfaction is forced to content itself with a single sensation and, just as the blind hear more acutely and the deaf can feel the grass grow, so the mouth becomes the focus of love and all things pass through it and are re-defined. It is a sweet and precise torture.”
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