the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
synaptic (an unwant ad)
in a glorious 35 years of living I have pitched to and fro, undulated slow, tossed and turned restlessly, tirelessly and blissfully, and made utterly sane and madly vane love with more women than I ever need to count.
But lecherous boasting is not what this humble plea is all about.
For albeit I have been fortunate enough to peacefully proclaim there have been no regrets, I do not wish to entertain this ardent lust any further.
And mad as it may seem, my current passion is to glean something deeper than the gleaming, more profound than the radiance of sin that leaps off a sheen of skin and warmly envelopes my imagination, and without hesitation shamelessly tempts me to manifest more yearning.
You see, I have tried all kinds of love: free love, love that promises eternity, love free from obligation, love rife with frustration, love lost to the patterns of life that we follow, love that has been hallow, love that has been hollow, intoxicating love undulating in the musty wafts of making-love marathons, love spread over miles, love fettered by turbulent trials, unseen obscene love and love that reveals itself to be pure.
Alas, now all I care for is for a love to endure.
Hence, I'm looking to venture into an eternal Spring, on a whimsical journey, an exploration of all those things some others may not be inclined to do, to tolerate, to amalgamate with their own dreary lives, the penchants and preferences, the proclivities and all the ribald probabilities at which we might arrive whilst in droll pursuit of all the possibilities which this very wonderful world has to offer. Very few people can actually envision, feel, taste, see and hear them. So, if you find yourself thinking that we with our perceptual agility, within the dynamic context of our extra committed relationship, can fall to the wayside and enjoy all the raw fruits of time and earth and our desires combined, than write to me.
the art of living the art of love