the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love

the irreverent heart

For the last two days I've tried not to presume, assume, judge, predict, lament, regret, analyze or fear. I've kept myself busy, applying myself to what is necessary, and during my spare time focusing on what I desire and enjoy doing most: study, contemplation, writing, being alone, and alas, regaining consciousness of a more prosaic reality after being spun out of it for a fantastic moment under a bridge.

I do not deny that it was real, for I did feel and smile and delight in the serious energy that seemed to me to have all the potential to some day become light.

Alas, as this weekend passes, the feeling has not waned and my euphoria maintains its hold on me. And even though I am conscious of how it all so wildly manifests into small hopes, a wanton dream, a half-flung fantasy that I've pulled back in time and time again, I am finding it increasingly difficult to manage the reigns pf this passion and not allow it to run away with my sensibilities.

I remind myself that from the start the mutual aspiration has been all but ephemeral and a temporary call for semi-consistent company and a little affection. I know, I reason, I comprehend, but even now at the end of 48 hours these logical and cognitive powers seem all but helpless against the will of the heart.

Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point. ~ Pascal
(The heart has its reasons which reason cannot know.)

the art of living the art of living the beginning the art of love the list

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