built to spill

We are not data.
We are not black fonts painted on clean white sheets tucked in manila folders and hidden away in gun metal gray filing cabinets.
We are not an appointment scheduled on an over sized calender in a professional's office. (His desk is adorned with high class knickknacks, among them is a gold framed portrait of his family beaming under a Cancun sun, perfect. They are tanned. Healthy. Smiling mouths expose perfect white teeth. A picture of the american dream.)
We are not an account number with an accompanying profile photograph.
We are not a job title.
We are beings miraculously floating through time and space, trapped on a planet searching for something, someone. Seeking love. We rummage through the senseless debris of modern life looking for that spark, that _____, the ineffable flame that unites two exiled souls and transforms the meaning of self. Two beings fuse and the spectrum through which they view life changes.
Men have murdered for the flame of love.
Men have disappeared never to return upon experiencing love's crushing departure.
Lovers have committed themselves until death for that light.
Others have made final pacts and chosen an early exit when the cold shadows of authority won't allow their flare to flash.
All of this for love. Sweet love.
We've shot men into space and left proof of our existence on a lunar surface. We've developed technologies to kill thousands and save millions. Yet love has befuddled the human mind. Love's implausible logic leaves us silent, but a kiss speaks volumes.
Perhaps some day scientists dressed in white lab coats and trapped in sterile labs of fluorescent lighting will discover love's true name, its actual source. Is it a chemical? A component in the brain? What organic matter could possibly bring two separate beings together with such undeniable force?
What has brought L and me together?
What is driving us forward, closer?
Why does my entire body flutter with electricity when I look into her endless eyes?
How can the simple presence of another soul generate a peace -- a mutual peace -- that dissolves time and transcends two bodies from this physical realm?
She says, "I don't want to rush this. I've made that mistake before and I don't want to make the same mistake again."
I say, "I don't want to rush things. I've made that same mistake as well."
We want this to last.
But love is illogical, an untamed beast beyond comprehension. Is it possible to temper the flame? And if so, are we thereby harming its process?
And how do we know if these feelings are genuine?
One can question his or her feelings until they become meaningless drivel, and when love is involved the questions, as well as a subtle fear, quietly hum like distant radio static, fading in, fading out.
I did not ask for L's blessed presence, but here she is. I refuse to compute the risks involving myself with her; I'm enjoying each second and striving to plant myself "in the moment," knowing that tomorrow may never arrive. I won't mince my words, dear. I do not have the time -- none of us do.

"I try to think of what time is and all I can think is:
Time is.
Time was."
Andy Warhol, artist

It's my opinion that subconsciously, and in some cases consciously, we seek to control -- despite the fruitless nature of the task -- every aspect of our lives. Yes, you can control what you consume, who you see, where you travel, but the things that shift our lives, the things that make life real, the things that flash our brains and flush our hearts are ultimately beyond our control.
Love tells us to go. Move. Proceed. Forward. Experience. Open ourselves to that Great Unknown.
Love is a purpose. A reason to reach. Touch. Kiss. Exchange. Feel.
Love allows us to escape ourselves, we shed the flesh, bone and hair and become something... else. We become the greatest vessel this planet will ever know: a transparent body of peace, appreciation and tenderness.
The Uncontrollable.
Won't you join me, love?
All we're losing is time. Wretched time. Damn the consequences.
Tick. I.
Tock. Love.
Tick. You.
Tock. ..................

mc
"We're always losing the moment, it's always vanishing."
Stephen Koch, author