"The amorous gift is sought out, selected, and purchased in the greatest excitement—the kind of excitement which seems to be of the order of orgasm. Strenuously I calculate whether this object will give pleasure, whether it will disappoint, or whether, on the contrary, seeming too important, it will in and of itself betray the delirium."
It is a personal heaven and hell that compels me to frantically ponder all the details of splendor with which I idealize, and subsequently realize and fashion and render a lover's gift.
The ecstasy is exponential when it is something of my own creation, and not merely a token purchase which tries to convey the invigorating sensation, that great revelation she inspires in me.
Furiously, I have worked through many a night to make or write, and ultimately, delight in the manifestation of my heart's extolling professions, often ignoring the tolling lessons of exhaustion which my body conveys in its wane and wake. For while all of me that is mortal sighs that it is all but dead, love plods ahead ignoring all the limits that make me merely a man.
And it reminds me that "I can," for I cannot truly live without giving. Give and you shall receive ten-fold; give unconditionally and the return is immeasurable.
Every once in a while, I hesitate, wondering the wherefores and where forth my lover's mind will wander, once she ponders why I have made such a significant effort. Alas, albeit the pause is stammering, it never halts the push of my vigor completely. For I neatly justify my small gestures of magnanimity knowing that time never repeats itself, and that although I am here now, tomorrow is another day that I may not be.
Thus, obstinately I give these presents nonetheless. Confessing, through mere words and trinkets of attention, that I feel blessed to be in the presence of my lover, if only for the while that my wiles entertain her affection—that which is inherently one of her greatest gifts—to me.
the art of love
l.m