Letter to Love


Something burns my throat, it is the evil again, the evil that attacks me each time something achieves to debilitate me. They have not been few, the days of my live, the days of dizzy presyncopatic states. At those moments, there are only two things that can elevate my spirits and eliminate my suffering; these are the medicine and the love. But the medicine takes hours to make effect, whilst love takes only a few milliseconds; however, the effect of the medicine is more durable, while the one of the love fades away as soon as I apart myself away from the one whom I love.

Oh love of mine! Why dost thou not realize that between thy arms the evil no longer exists?

The day previous to yesterday I called a girl «love», she got angry and reclaimed, as if «love» were synonymous of «whore» or something worst. What happens with the world? Why has it decayed so much that calling someone «love» has become a blasphemy?

And yet there are worse things that should be blasphemy, but they are not. Things such as not calling me «love», Love, things as those cause me suffering. But thou dost not conform with not calling me love, each time thou goest away from me, thou dost not even call me anymore, neither answer my calls.

People do not believe me when I tell them that I love them, that I live trying to help them to find felicity. And thou Love dost not differentiate now much from the people. Thou preferst to talk about foolish stuff instead of love.

Why is it needed to endeavour so much so thou call me love? Why to compose so many melodies? If at the end thou wilt reject me and ignore me, as if I truly were so evil, as if the melodies instead of praising thee were insulting thee, as if thou truly didst not love me. Oh Love tell me why!

Thou knowst it, thou rememberst me, thou lovest me too, but thou dost not accept it, because thy materiality do not let thee, because thou art still alienated in this capitalist world, where the silliest things pass as genial, and the genial ones are ignored and assassinated slowly by inanition.

Love of mine, thou believest that thou art not mine, but thou art, because I can feel thee, and if I feel thee, thou art mine, and only mine, because no one else can feel thee.

However thy existence contradicts any philosophy, because they swore that the inside was not objective, that those things were subjective; but even if thou art mine, thou art not subjective, thou dost not let thyself be transformed to my taste and will, instead thou behavest independently of me, I import thee naught. Where is the subjective then?!

And people get crazier yet, because they want to believe that everything is subjective, and with that pretext attempt to kill the reason, but the love is not subjective, neither the material, nor almost the whole reality.

And if the love were subjective, I would not have to write it letters begging it to cuddle me, imploring it to call me love, beseeching it to cure my sufferings, or at least to macianne me easier to abide them, for having it beside me. But it is not like that, the love is not subjective, in fact it is so objective that my epistles import nothing, probably it will never read them, or if it read them, it will never answer them.

No Love, do not be like that, love me, I beg thee. There is not tomorrow, only now; anything that thou didst not, thou wilt never do, and thou couldst be repented of it. Love me, because love is not insult nor aggression, because love is the most beauteous praise, the most sublime detail that someone can have towards some soul.

All this written, there is only one thing left to embody in this letter: I love thee,,,


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