CONSTRUCT OR MEANING


All these letters are interchangeable. All of them could be you, and I foolishly read them all. I wanted to find an answer, so I kept turning the page. I guess I'm telling you this now so you can have a document of the suffering you caused me: there are no answers. No surprise there, right? Yet I hate how we get reduced to cliches. But, fuck it, why not: Love hurts. HA!

What are you digging for? Or is it simply that you want others to dig, looking for answers that are not there? Who are you?

The real point is this: how can anyone know what anyone wants or who anyone is? Your pussy could be throbbing or you could be sad on a plane or you could just want some compassion. Who knows? You're anonymous, (or at least you were). But we're all anonymous, aren't we? And if we are just going to be anonymous, and if we're never going to face up to who we are--or how we love people and grow tired of them or use them or secretly think they're inadequate sometimes--then what good are all these words? We thought those things, and more, but we did not say them because we knew there were limits to language and limits to love. You cannot decree a tornado not to happen, and neither can I. Then is talk about love pointless? A diversion? A wish?

Better yet, is love invented, or are we? If love is a construct none of this matters, and we will all die alone, having had our shares each of caring and orgasms. But what if love is the meaning that writes us...writes us like sentences? What then? Do you make amends for the sentence fragment, the run-on, the unclear wording? Or does love itself change its syntax and not people?

There are questions you have never answered. Is it that you won't or you can't?