£ove for words

The goodbye...

On March 28, 1941,Virginia Woolf filled her overcoat pockets with rocks and walked into the River Ouse behind her house never to emerge alive. A relapse of the all-consuming depression she had narrowly escaped in her youth had finally claimed her life. She left behind a remarkable body of work — from her poignant diaries to her magnificent essays to her little-known children’s books to “the longest and most charming love letter in literature” — and a cohort of heartbroken friends, but the most stirring thing she left behind was her suicide letter to her husband Leonard

[Transcript]
Tuesday.

Dearest,

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V.

You are in my veins...

When you love someone, it should be easy. It might get hard during certain moments, but in the way you two get each other — it must be gloriously easy. Deep, soul-consuming yet effortless, magnificent, simple to the very core. Hearts connecting and communicating, instant flashes of one person’s reaching out and the other’s immediate encompassing of the initiative until reaching out feels powerfully mutual — it must be nothing other than that. Automatic bloody wanting, wanting and desiring. Choosing that person during your hardest, most painful, as well as ordinarily human moments. Laughing your ass off with them not in order to break the ice but just because it feels effortless even when things get dramatic. Directness of emotion. Occasionally losing consciousness of what feels like yourself and at the same time knowing that this is you addressing someone you love. Acceptance of whatever happens. Plain trust. Know how complicated it is and then state it simply — experience the other person not merely in terms of them understanding you but also in terms of fucking feeling it with you at that very moment — that’s what soul communication is about. When you love someone, man, it must be devastatingly real. It doesn’t need to be profound. It doesn’t need to be complicated beyond belief. Sure it can be all that, but then again, fuck that. Fuck any possible attempt at a description. Your entire being must yearn toward everything yearning is about. That’s the only way it happens. This yearning must be shared. True motherfucking unembellished, accurate soul connection. There it goes.”

— All These Things You Wish You’d Say

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 You’re in my veins. No. You’re in my heart. No. You’re in my blood. No. Yes. You’re in every part I call mine and in all parts I dare not name or know and yet love. Silence. Let me have it out: I am a weak person but I’m brave when it comes to loving you. I can’t bear the uncertainty I currently read in your eyes; I can’t bear to witness the fear inside your gaze — that terror over me possibly hurting myself or over you not being able to be with me in all the ways you used to. I can’t bare you feeling that you have to tear yourself in two halves in order to please me so that we can both pretend that everything’s precisely as it was. I’m not interested in the leftovers, darling. I’m interested in the whole thing. I’ve been loving the whole thing. So, we’re still here and it’s supposed to be enough; first impersonal morning text and what has changed howls mercilessly and I feel bad. 10-minute alone meeting before others actually join us and we’re both feeling uncomfortable and we’re both craving that others’ arrival is going to take some of the uneasiness away. And still, I look at you and all I feel for you is love. I look at you and every sense of discomfort turns into an emotional overflow and I can’t think, I can’t pretend, I can’t conceal the feeling, I can’t put the emotion away, I can’t silence my own fearful silence. I look at you and I love, I love, I love. And if that means that I should let go, I will, although in truth, I won’t. Ever. It’s just going to feel like I’m distancing. I will because perhaps, right now, this is what we mutually need. I will because what I feel for you is infinite. I will because in spite of my fear, I know, we’ll both be alright. I will, because what matters to me more than my own self-protection is the love itself. And since I know it’s love, I will because I’m not scared. I’m more scared to stay without staying; I’m more scared to put on a mask and compromise when I know, deep in my heart, that I can’t compromise. I can’t settle for anything less than what we had. I don’t want to settle for anything else. If I’m honest with myself, I really, truly need to leave and turn this absence into an honest, powerful and solid presence. And I don’t know whether I have the guts to do it but I promise that if I’ll be doing it, it won’t be an act of escapism. It’s going to be an act of bravery. And you’ll hopefully understand. You’ll hopefully come to feel that this is the way I have loved you and this is my way of continuing to love you. I’d rather go away, darling. I’d rather go away than rot inside some false half-friendship. I’d rather go away than come back home to myself each night and get to feel as empty as a shadow, as vacant and ghost-like as someone who didn’t dare do any justice to what they were feeling. I am not scared of loneliness, darling. I am scared of losing track of what’s real and what’s not. I am scared to begin doubting my own soul strength when it comes to loving you, me, and us. I don’t want that. I love you too much for that. I still love this so frightfully much. But I want to love it for what it is, not for what it isn’t, wasn’t and shall never be. And it’s not ever going to be mediocre. Ever. We wouldn’t let it. I’m sure. 

[All These Things You Wish You’d Say ]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s intoxicating, the way you never leave my brain; the way you float through and within me. We can’t make sense of each other and yet something lies there, waiting to be said or unsaid. It’s beautiful, the way that you never leave my brain; it’s like some privilege you’ve gained from me – you just never leave my brain. On some days, daydreams attain meaning; the very meaning that you decide to give them. And once you make daydreams meaningful, hold your breath, right there, you’re creating your own illusion and set it free to play with reality. And I want to be with you in this, you know? I want this because I want it with you. Did you say something? Did I miss the connotation behind that smile? Am I allowed to undress you in mind, am I allowed to pretend I don’t care whether you sense this or not? You know you’ve never left my brain; somehow it throws itself at you and moves inward toward the unknown territory of some thoughtless desire. You will remain there because I demand it of you. Play along and do not ask for an explanation; it’s a brain thing, who would dare mention the soul? The soul must surrender because you never leave my brain. The soul must accept its loss; it must courageously step back and resign. It’s infuriating, the way you never leave my brain; continue doing so as long as you don’t mess with fate. Keep away from me and ignore me. Let’s talk about something I’ve forgotten to mention: You never leave my brain. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[All These Things You Wish You’d Say]

[Pictures and content courtsey Google]

Clenched soul by Pablo Neruda

We have lost even this twilight.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand

while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun

burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched

in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?

Who else was there?

Saying what?

Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly

when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight

and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings

toward the twilight erasing statues.

Remembrance of a void

I will £ive to £ove………More

I will love. More. So much love that no one will have any idea what to do with me. They will watch with a confused look and wonder why I give so much and do not ask for more in return. I will give it because giving is getting and there is nothing quite so important as emptying your heart every single day and leaving nothing undone, no declarations of it unsaid. I will never, ever believe in the words “too late,” because it is never too late to be exactly who you wish, do exactly what you should, say exactly what needs to be heard, and live the exact life you should be living.

Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías.

¿Quién escribe tu nombre con letras de humo entre las estrellas del sur?

Ah déjame recordarte cómo eras entonces, cuando aún no existías.

Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?

Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed

~Pablo Neruda~

If you forget me....

Poem "If You Forget Me" by Pablo Neruda, read by Madonna.



If You Forget Me

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

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