I pulled out my iPad, in the subway, opened a mind-mapping application to lay the first foundations of a novel. The subject is still too vague in my lazy little head, and probably also stuck to my reality. Since my story is still out there, it is difficult, even dangerous, to seek a conclusion.
In short, it’s the anguish of the plan. There’s too much to say about love. Many will say that everything has been said and they are probably right. Everything has been thoroughly described with Greek mythologies and, since then, we have been going in circles. Literary masterpieces are as many beautiful carousels as there are colorful stories. The axis is, however, the same; the human tragedy (in its noble sense) will not be dislodged from its base any time soon. At most, the first impulse, which is to procreate, has been transformed in the human race into multiple metaphors of the game. Nature will not be offended by it (it is not offended by anything) since in this way it reinvents itself.
So, we never seem to get tired of telling the same things, of living the same hours and days. A young writer would probably not have the same vision. Ready to fight human nature, he will hasten to put his passions as much on paper as his wet tissues. He will not want to read and listen to what has already been said, and he will be partly right to blind himself to start over. It is a little bit for this reason that I no longer read much because I still have the desire to discover metadata that is still unexplored.
I know that a love story often comes from an ocean that has become too calm, too spread out. What must be remembered from this statement is the adverb “too.” I also know that many people are content (and probably always right) to live their love without making too many waves. I have already written, in fact, at the beginning of a novel, that if quiet lovers had nothing to say, it is because they were probably dumbfounded by their happiness.
It’s a nice little trick. I know that the calm swell of old couples exists. I also know that many aspire only to that, to find a companion, and to build a dock on an ocean lived together, to sit there and plunge their feet into beneficial water. I also know that, after having crossed many oceans, many give up as much as they give up their will. Either they resign themselves, or they understand that there is no point in fighting.
It always comes down to that: to be content with a totally deserved happiness. Old couples, who have seen many others, look up from time to time at the more adventurous swells on the horizon. Some will go so far as to call the storm, want to relive the adventure of rediscovering everything. We know where this leads. Greek mythologies already spoke of it.
What about me in there? I don’t know where my boat is taking me. I have some useful addresses, one could say, beautiful souls around me. I too am dragging my feet on the shores of a lake that many would not want because it is probably a little wilder than the usual stories. I’d like to tell it, but I still have to keep my mouth shut. We do not name the unfathomable in some religions, for fear that it will explode or that we will realize that the depth so feared is only an ordinary puddle on asphalt. So, am I afraid?
There’s really a lot to say about love. How come we really didn’t say everything? This is a lovely enigma.
I believe that, since we all know the same end, we must remain honest, even in love. This dimension of existence must be included in this other, larger dimension of our realization, undoubtedly personal, but also transpersonal. I believe that if we keep repeating ourselves, it is because we keep forgetting. Amnesia is what drives us always to want to recreate ourselves. The water of the seas will be grey when our eyes no longer dream.
The writer is looking for his story.