I love Gwyneth Paltrow; a statement of my being. I was, therefore I may be; but what am I when she is my sole desire? When empathy and compassion increase the distance between us? When what I will is not what I want, when what I want I cannot need, when what I need is will?
For her, I can do nothing, I can be nothing; yet for myself, I live to love her. And love needs expression. Love requires expression; not shared it withers, or worse, the one who loves withers within. The one who once loved turns to loathing, what is shared is bitterness and remorse. What is expressed is envy, jealousy, and greed.
Yet I will. For most often the meaning of life is plainly stated, to continue. As I write, as I smoke, as I consider; what is apparent is that what motivates is never unity. No single desire fuels every fire; and if i have lived to love her, I can further simplify. I can live to love.
And in love, write. I began when I first drew her likeness, I have ended ten years later; with another drawing. One where I had defined my love of my Gwynnies by placing the whole world between us; by the consideration that rather than shouting to the heavens of a love so grand, I would whisper softly into the ears of my contemporaries. A synergy of infinitesimals of a lifetime, composed like a sonnet into a soliton; so that the whole world may know of my love before she would know of my love of her.
And what I have found, by being the least to my sweet everything; I have taken the divine measurement.