The door of love

There are times - in the dead of night, when all is quiet, and the empty streets caress your thigh ever so gently - when you realise that you are hopelessly alone inside your own skull. No one may enter, and you are barely able to leave. Speaking through the letterbox, and peeking out occasionally to get a glimpse of the postman's package, but certainly nothing else.

That door though, is forever locked. No one will ever be able to get closer to you than rubbing their lips over the sanded wood of the door, desperately grasping for the knob, urging some form of release, wanting something inside you to pulse out into their hands, or into their mouth. It is distressing, and awful. So much do we want to understand the inside of the people we love, that we poke and pry and insert. Exchanging fluid from inside to inside, through the grotesque old ceremony. We take in any excretion we can - because it comes from the body, it comes from inside. De profundis - from the very depths.

That is how much we love - when we try to, when we want to - that pressing tight against that doorway, no matter how lovely, and warm it may be - it is just the bricks and mortar - the lovely cottage, that we yearn to step inside of. We yearn to breathe in the sandalwood, run our fingers over the mantelpiece and laugh at the old portraits of the long dead lovers.

So heartbreakingly painful it is to be strapped inside the chair of your own mind, utterly and ineffably alone, inside the great fortress of the mind, with the gates barred, and the unscalable walls reaching to the zenith.

This is what love faces. There are deserts even lovers cannot traverse, it is woeful.