Love and Fear

When Cupid rears his handsome head: what a mess of a merry hell! A spark– and it is done; feathers are displayed, shadows move behind a handy screen; what of it?

How does passion turn to guilt, and guilt to fear?

Some things are hidden; secrets are a scourge upon the soul, for it wants not to hide a thing from whom it loves; lying taught us to imagine, whereupon we imagined a fable called Truth, and that made some, at any rate, detest deceit. Yet, lying is a social invention and a trusty tool; so hidden things put curtains in between, and that which aimed to strike the heart might ricochet into the striker’s kidney; whose pain the mystic scholars once called guilt.

Guilt is an admission of a breach of trust, that there is more afoot than meets the eye; it expects to be found out or met with falsehood in return; once guilt acquires hold and shoves its nails into the living flesh, it takes the aspect of a bloody bat, which rends the soul with fear.

Fear! It wracks nerves, refuses to give rest; fears and not-so-secret shames; oh! what it is that’s made of noble things. Pursuit of beauty, joy, and dreams, can, with some dull Chimeran malice well applied, be also made to be a thing of fear: what is considered wrong, pray tell? What is the object of this fear?

An image strange I conjure: All the world is darkness full of shadows cast around a multitude of flames; but to each flame the others sometimes seem a bit like shadows too, touching only fleetingly to be assured of one another’s incandescence. In such a world the choice is either seek the light and heat of fellow lives, or shiver else among the shadows; and as I reel with poison in my mind I shrink, immobile, and become a shadow, scared of light and scalding heat, whose tortured soul is secret. But it dreams–

A lonely flame is trembling in a black, red and orange field; it sways among the shifting shadows drunkenly, and burns the brighter, like a beacon. The shadows cringe away in prudish indignation to reveal…

Splashing naked in the stream, oblivious to furrowed banks or storm clouds bringing bitter sleet; in any case, who fears an insubstantial shadow in the ample bosom of companionship and love, in league with fantasies who live in airy castles?

Let not your well-loved castles in the air decline and be replaced by insubstantial atmospheric real-estate to box you off all nice and neat; and don’t forget that clouds make not good fences, nor do fences clouds.

Dance, happy dream flame, and be a pillar of fire at night; by your light the shadows don’t cast fear.

Published in: on Friday, August 29th, 2008 at 2:14 am  Leave a Comment  

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