To them who've endeavoured into the depths of love, into the tiniest affairs of it, have I written this, to those that quench their thirst from the fountain of youth that is love and on whose dinner table dines the embodiment of Beauty daily at night, and to them who can barely spend a waking moment, a sleeping moment, a tiny strand of the fabrics of life without their princes and princesses, without their love and indulgence, I pen this. I tell a tale- an historical fiction, if you would- as simple and as mysterious as shadows, as beautiful and brief as dawn. Once, I loved. I retell the story as dishonestly as suits my fancy: altered, modified, and enhanced, as to retell the story of none but imaginary beings thought up in a whim of imagination. This pure imagination I attempt to emblazon with the handiest tools man ever wrought--paper and pen. Remember, though, as you, wondering, journey through my blessèd fabrication, that it has metamorphosed from utter and rustic reality.
At first, I lay the simple question haunting my conscience: What is Love, that we may know the depths of it? And I answer anon. Love is a long-lasting, simple whisper, softly spoken, quiet enough to be heard by two wanderers and loud enough to thunder its echoing sound throughout the Universe. It is the most real of abstracts and the uniquest of feelings. Love is of purity unmatched, of simplicity without peer. And yet, this wonder is most often found to be the opposite of what it is. Here is the true definition of Love: it's the attraction between two that can break all bonds and limits and rules and standards. It is a beautiful virus with no cure, and when two have the disease, it's a blesséd fiction.
There it was, hope you like it. More to come...
Adonis
wafaa said...