MONTAGE ON LOVE

MONTAGE ON LOVE

MONTAGE ON LOVE

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When he leaves, she is condensed by shock until, like a seed, she becomes the original of herself.
 
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For her it was hard to be in love again. It put her under serious pleasure.
 
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He was irresistible as only the very young of any species are programmed to be. He played enthusiasm like an extreme sport.
 
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No, he did not play. He imagined. The two things are different only because of outcomes.
 
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Somewhere outside this paradise (which is, after all, nothing but an enclosed garden) are places where outcomes are not surrounded by walls. She wonders what to call the things that are placed in paradise.
 
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She considers inoculating herself against future shock by administering small, daily doses of loss. Against her better judgement, she finds she has become a hoarder.
 
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He also was a hoarder but a stealthier one. What he hoarded and where he stored it are enduring secrets.
 
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It was always difficult to say they. It is a word that did not come easily to either of their tongues.
 
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But that is not why she left. [Why he left]. That was an act of superb, of beautiful disentanglement.
 
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She condenses. He deliquesces. Incoherence and silence are not the same thing. Hoarding and holding are not the same thing.