I started writing and composing this in January, I stumbled upon it recently, edited it, and decided to release it as I feel like it describes the situation I find myself in now,
The older I get, the more love feels like a wound I cannot close. I’ve begun to feel, in the most zealous way, feelings of love engulf my very existence, yet it’s wreathed by my constant melancholy. What a curse it is to be passionate!
To love so quickly, so deeply, maybe it’s the ennui that fuels this perpetual sensation, this romanticism that this trajectory of my life follows, one of Romeo, plunges me in everlasting despair. To have the scale so lopsided introduces the passion of sadness and uncertainty. What love is it if the rope is not being continuously pulled by both parties? But how sweet its fruit when loved as passionately!
As time progresses, I realize the maze that I find myself in leads me continuously to these dead ends, plunging me ever deeper and closer to suffocation. Never do I have to ask my Josephine to write me back, yet as she treads infinitely in my mind, I faintly appear in hers.
And yet, I continue to write, not for a response, not for recognition, but to exorcise this passion that ever is embedded within me. Started as a blog to share ideas and interests, it has succumbed to the feelings that plague me with this doom. Yet, I hold out for my Juliet, my Hephaestion, that’ll reach out and attune mine, aligning it with their harmony. Is this not what it means to live passionately? To feel everything all at once? To collapse beneath the weight of your own heart?
The disdain that the soul feels when the passion of love is imbalanced eats at the very logos that the very being follows. As my letters remain unanswered, my thoughts plague my mind, harboring the sadness that I can’t escape. Where is my Besseries, my Ducos, my Patroclus?
Perhaps, though, it is the absence of ties to my own family that has left me seeking love with such destructive intensity. Without the warmth of a hearth to return to, I cast my love outward, hurling it like Alexander reaching for a new world to conquer. I place my heart into friends and a lover as though they were my only council, my Lafayette, my Livia Drusilla, my Cicero, each one a pillar I hope might hold me upright. But like an overstrained beam under cyclic loading, I find myself suffering from emotional fatigue, fracturing slowly under the repeated stress of unmet affection.
Although I may have once agreed, I now rebuke Schopenhauer’s description of love. Yet, in love, there exists a possibility in the degradation of a man’s soul and ambition. I try to allow my ambition to elevate me above the idea of companionship, but in this task, I have failed.
Those solitary moments that I had previously treasured have become detrimental to my mental state. I find myself wandering to never spend a second in the place I call home, meandering aloof without a purpose, without a goal in mind.
I remain unguided by logic and reason, yet my soul desires a passion as fervent as mine, a certainty in this uncertain life. Or will this melancholy abandon me of this, moving me to the next?
Am I cursed to roam Tartarus with no other?
Am I cursed to harbor this eternal sadness and Stygian gloom?
Am I cursed to forever think about myself, doomed to suffer Machiavelli’s fate?
Did Dido not feel this too as she plunged Aenaes’ sword ever deeper?
Why hide it? Why hold back? To suffer greater blows?
Did he groan when I wept? Even look at me? Never!
Surrender a tear? Pity the one who loves him?
What can I say first? So much to say. Now,
neither mighty Juno nor Saturn’s son, the Father,
gazes down on this with just, impartial eyes.
There’s no faith left on earth!”
As Virgil says:
“omnia vincit amor; et nos cedamus amori.”
“Love conquers all; let us too, yield to love”
Samnehs Blogs 