How should I immortalise my sentiments? For the smouldering passion deep within my heart, compels me forward into the vision of a great fortune I knew not to be possible. When the entire world has always been against you, how can you reason that which is for you?

You. You came into my life, three lucky years ago, during a time when I was in sharp, unhinged pieces. My heart, my soul, even my prostrate body, splintered by the trauma and near death experience of purgatory. Demons, now my companions, once against me, shattering all illusions of whom I thought I was. My adversaries, my greatest guides under the cover of night. The darkness, a cesspit of deathly lesions, of disease and shamanic probations, which was the initiation of my crucified salvation. And, the ingress of you.

For without you there would be no darkness, and without that brilliant darkness there would be no you. And yet through the chimera of dread that pierces the ghostly reflection in the starry space enveloping me, there is nought but stillness and silence. A peace beyond all pieces. A love beyond all tormenting terrors.

The devil taught me love and then she brought me you. For by stripping me of all I was not, I became the you whom was always meant for me. And even when the ire and rancour of my previous life slit deep, the slashes of the razor into my fleshy soul and the corresponding sultry, sticky, scarlet blood oozing out my very sanity… Something timeless echoed in the ether and aroused you. And without this very eruption, again, we would not be.

I am one person in many, and many persons in one, and we are who materialises when you gaze at the great cosmic mirror. For our souls were once free of Maya’s mirage of estrangement too. For we are just remnants of some greater creature which crashed through the atmosphere of earth’s melody and rendered us alienated. And we have been pursuing the other since, for that completeness, for that knowing of intimate wholeness of togetherness.

When I am with you, I am. Everything within me slows, the ticking of the clock hand stops, and all that I am, truly, is. Because in you, I find myself. In you I find my completion.

Love is one of those peculiar, sublime things. We pine with all the vitality inside ourselves for that estranged expression, eventually losing credence that this idyllic redemption could ever be a reality. And yet once we hit rock bottom in our despondency, Mother Nature has that uncanny way of startling us with our gravely resurrected hope. That hope of reconnection, that hope of reunion with otherness, that hope of osmosis through the sublimate threads of temporal infinity.

You, my guardian, have accorded me all that I am, through your love, through your presence, through your very self. For you are whom I had silently been craving and yet known it not. Because through you I have been metamorphosed like a phoenix rising from the ashes. I was incinerated, illuminating the heavens in dazzling cataclysmic flames, and yet in my renascence you were borne through me. For now I am no longer myself, nor all the shivers and shards that make up my fissioned identity, but I am you, who has become me.

I was once intimidated by genuine tenderness, and yet oblivious I was to it. Timorous for rejection, my fundamental affliction for this lifetime, perhaps a multitude of lifetimes, I know not. My breast was so empty, desolate with forsaken covenants by havering lovers. Vacant with jaded confidence, yet I continued to go through the motions, to hold on, to cling onto life somewhere deep within. And I am gratified by my fortitude, because that watery, uterine potentiality was all this time waiting for you, longing and yearning for absorption and dissolution into this one truth: You.

There are many goodly persons whom proffer themselves into our accursed lot, and some you may opine to finally reach the heights of paradise with. But then, one day, your entire paracosm spirals about you, whether down or up I cannot say, for the below becomes the above and the above becomes the below as the world degenerates around us in rapture of the second coming, and we lose sensibility of who we are, for all that is, in a flurry of otherworldly, maddening mewls and resounding murmurs.

What I am meaning to express is thusly such: Many times I have attempted to cure my soul’s ineffaceable septicaemia, in seclusion and also by aid of others whom I believed to have adulated me in my entirety of ecstatic dualities. Yet I grotesquely miscarried my aspirations each and every time. And why should this come to be that finally, finally, when I behold the remedy, the philtre to rehabilitate all afflictions, to restore my fractured soul, it is but the very essence of your own virility that has melded and fit perfectly into that expectant aperture as if by some stunning enchantment?

Love. It is not solely frivolous sentiment or purposeful selection, but it is when you find that other half of you, and become whole, truly, within and without, as if never you’d been apart. For the gods may have punished us with the handicap of separation, but they have also blessed us again with the exultation of restitution. I did not envisage there to be one special person awaiting me, until I bequeathed my love unto you. And I did not become complete until I withdrew the disquiet of being unlovable from my heart.

This is a soliloquy, a silent serenade from the medium of our soul which is mine unto yours. Let nature not be so cruel as to again punish us for our error of our corporeal limitations. Let us ascend beyond ourselves with the only thing which matters, that of love for the greater whole. For as we coalesce within ourselves, who we are then becomes the microcosm of the infinite macrocosm surrounding us.

You have reconciled me with my wound most profound, such as has plagued me since my emergence into this world when my father abdicated my desirability. By all means, I dedicated myself to the Work, through psychic conflagration and viscous, soulish haemorrhage. But without you, such miracle could not be. Because you were that missing puzzle piece. It matters not through vanity I could have continued aimlessly attending my endeavour, I would not have flourished, because you, you were the remedy. You are my remedy. And you are my salvation. Thus without you, I am not me.

You have said that your perfection is a result of your extension of me. Now I say my own is a result of the reconnection of my extension of you. In romance I assert this certainty, remote though we may be, you are I, and I am you. We are that, we are – one.

And now may I drink from your chalice of sweet panacea for the rest of my days, be they ephemeral or sempiternal. But for as long as I gayly and greedily gulp of your golden ambrosia, I shall become immortalised within your love. For you, you are that breath I breathe, and that life which truly sustains.

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