I once loved a man more than all the stars in the universe, more than nearly every cell in my own body, save for a few.
I once trusted that man’s reason more than all the reason of all the wisest philosophers in all of history, more than nearly every scrap of reason in my own mind, save for perhaps two.
I loved that man more than my own children, which drove them both a little mad – and which has certainly driven me more than a little mad.
I still love him; and that may be absolutely mad… but, once one has gone mad, can one ever truly be cured of madness? The psychologists deny the possibility; my friends insist upon the necessity; and who am I to say? I have gone mad and I love him still, love myself enough to love my madness and the journey into and out of it, thus far.
And I love our children more than him, I think (unless, in my madness, I am lying; though I think not); and I love myself more than him, certainly (for I have become transformed).
Once, in my consternation over a beautiful film and its profound message, he told me that most writers do not know the messages they deliver; that most writers are asleep; and I imagined it to be as if their minds simply catch onto meanings like seeds improbably planted in the ground, having been carried on the wind or upon some creature’s coat or in their stool.
Once, I believed him entirely.
I may still believe it, to a point; but, coming to write with increasing frequency, coming to know of more conscious writers, I am certain that, though we may not know the full implications of our words — just as we cannot know the full implications of our actions when we take them — there are more writers, more artists, more people who know at least something of their depths.
Perhaps I will find, one day, that my own belief is just as faulty, just as ill-based and fantastical as his own (which is not to say his is any less beautiful in its meaning, as I have always found it so).
Perhaps I will find that it does not even matter whether we are speaking in subconscious intelligence or that we know, at least in part, the depths we evoke. For now, all I can know or do is to write with simplicity the truths I hold and bear, the knowledge I have found and created, the worlds I have seen and imagined… and watch as those seeds grow.
Photo ©2017 MLM
Oceans of Mine 