Falling for words
As a little girl I puzzled over the other children blowing up soap-bubbles dissolving instantly in the air. I maker of the sublime, knew better. I blew up words, a thousand times more splendid and magical and immortal with it.
Subtler than a butterfly-collector, I knew how to fix them without rubbing the pollen off their wings. The more I wielded them, the more they came to life. I bound them together, not as slaves but as companions of my secret games. I sent them in the air to let them palpitate and fly, attached to me just by the tie of my imagination.
I have always been in love with words: the elaborated, sophisticated, baroque words that I knew how to bring to a standstill in their vertiginous sway. Their exploration has become my life’s aim and meaning. This is why I fell for Jean-François. He is my word, the word that is my life.
Nothing is simpler than my logic: I read him. I fell in love. No force could oppose the inevitability of our engagement, unbreakable because purely abstract. The reality doesn’t count in our larger than life bond dependent on my imagination.
After all, what’s love?
A torrent of blinding light, as my précieux define it?
What tangible reality lies at the heart of this mirage? Has anyone ever seen it yet? Is love an artist’s invention, a suitable reason for the arts? A pretence to display the shimmering livery of its verbiage for Jean-François Sarasin? A means to survive for me?
Has anyone ever refused to listen to a love story?
Don’t miss mine?