Rant but its my blog so its okay
I love Plato, but reading his dialogues on love and virtue leaves me unbearably sad. His dialogues on love speak of ascent, harmony, participation in the good. Reading them, I feel not enlightened but indicted of the incapacity to love.
I want to feel. I want to be in love. I want to be loved. And yet something in me does not answer when love calls. I am not without love. I love my friends with steadiness of my entire being. But Platonic love is not what challenges me.
Romantic love has defeated me. I have failed at it, homosexually and heterosexually alike. Those who have desired me have desired only that: desire itself. They wanted pleasure, reassurance, possession. They wanted something I could not give, no matter how convinced they were that they deserved it.
Because of this I often feel broken, quietly judged, as though love were a test everyone else passed without effort. I cannot envision a true love for myself. And yet all my interests circle romance, all my stories are of love, I am not Hippolytus, scorning Aphrodite out of his desire to be chaste. I do not despise love I ache for it.
I can imagine tenderness. I can imagine sensuality. But sexual gratification feels alien to me, unreal, like a language I was never taught. And I ask myself why? Why is this happening to me, of all people who love love?
I dream of beautiful men and women, of lovers who speak softly, who claim devotion under moonlight. But even in these dreams there is a limit I cannot cross. I suspect that if love were ever fully returned to me, it would not save me it would destroy me.
I kissed a man for the first time recently, and the experience was not revelatory but painful, I hated his warm lips on mine. Perhaps this is a matter of preference perhaps not. Even so, my imagination does not rush toward women in the way it is supposed to. Desire arrives blunted, abstracted, already disappointed.
My heart feels hollowed out, and my writing on love reflects it dull not from lack of interest, but from lack of experience. How can I write what I I’m not convinced of?
In the Mayan world, the gods were sustained by offering. Nothing endured without sacrifice. I sometimes wonder whether love is like that whether I have been judged unfit not because I refuse love, but because I have no blood to give it.
izzy806
2087
kaledo-art
pixelskylines
titsay