the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
lost in time
at times i feel that time is irrelevant now. it no longer matters if i have known you for two years or two hundred years, for the need to keep chronological score makes no sense when what i feel is immemorial. i can no longer place a label or a beginning, a middle, and certainly, not an end, on this almost indifferent tide of emotion that wafts soothingly over me, from an everlasting cascade of certainty rolled out in the waves we know will continue to lap lovingly upon the shore. it is as if there has almost never been a need to ease into our security, our trust, the lust and the love that bonds all these together. we know quite willingly where we were going from the onslaught of this sentimental reasoning that continues to guide us together and apart like the natural undulation of the making of synaptic miracles our bodies taught us from the start; the same lesson that we learn every time we shed all the ugly conventions and social inconvenience that keeps us separate lonely beings. it is only in the sacred rejoining that we understand life's meaning, as well as test and put to rest the question of its sustainability—over and over again.
the art of living the art of love