On Writing as Love

We write in order to fall in love. Someone I once knew was always talking about moving around, falling in love with everything, everywhere, writing poems with the body. He said the only real poems he ever wrote were the ones he screamed in the faces of confused passers-by and instantly forgot for the rest of his life.

We write always to recognize ourselves and to fall in love with the creative self capable of that kind of beauty in production. We secondarily write to convince an Other, an ideal lover, to fall in love with us, for it is only the creations of a Being that we may actually love. We claim it is they they themselves, but it is actually the words or actions their soul gives birth to or the feelings they inspire in us that we love.

Now for some people, the self and the Other is not enough (from one comes two, from two comes infinite) and they write to please a whole world, to be accepted and loved by the world at large, the zeitgeist that has supplanted a once omniscient diety in ability to judge, love and condemn. We sometimes write to make money, but if money is ego, then I can only suspect the aim of this sort of production is self-aggrandizement, ego-boost: the back door of love.