And So, It Is Named
I have tired my words tonight, but I’m still going to try to say this.
Sometimes, I find myself overcome by a peculiar sort of fullness. It’s a sensation of weight, but not of burden. More so of.. Completion. And when I sit and close my eyes, it is the weight of the images behind my eyelids. It’s the physical presence of thought upon my forehead. Not weighing down, though.
Giving substance to thought.
The last time I wrote, I was trying to understand the complexities of intensity. Intensity of social interaction, of emotional attachment. Emotional attachment- what a clinical and deficient term for something so purely visceral. Visceral, like my gut would turn inside out. Like I had branded your name into my very marrow, but I could call it emotion, for want of a better explanation.
Where do these emotions lie? Are they the sands where our dreams spiral from? Are they the weight that keeps us grounded? If I give what you and I share, the name of emotion, the name of love, will it cover it? That visceral knot, like nails that have dug past flesh and sinew, and grown roots into my bones- can I call that hopeless tangle, that feverish fury, Love?
I don’t know.
For someone who deals in words, it’s a sad realization that I’ve tired them out. I’ve tired them all out. The phrases are worn and the rhymes are weary. And they all are completely incapable of expressing me anymore. That my body weighs down, with love. That I have come past the stage of missing you when you are not there, to knowing you are, you’re always there. And the fullness persists, like a hunger that has been permanently silenced. Like a starving man, who dreamt of a dry crust of bread, and found that he will now forever be eating a morsel with every flavor known to human beings, with the savory rasp of sinking his teeth into meat, and the decadence of biting into a crisp green apple, with the juices running down his chin.
I am that starved man.
And I found you.
But my words are tired. And I struggle to put that constellation of incoherent emotion into letters. And like the malnourished dreamer who can only call it ‘food’, my articulation is crippled, restricted by how handicapped words are.
And I am reduced to calling it Love.