One of the things that bothered me in previous relationships was when my lover would call me because she felt she needed to connect with me but didn’t know how. That had the result of her starting to tell me a variety of irrelevant things (“How are you?”; “How was your day?” etc.) that brought back the mundane that I thought Eros had exorcised. I sympathize with the original intent, but fortunately I am mature enough to say (and feel) something more.

We always know people who feel something for us. This is not what distinguishes them. What distinguishes them is how they interpret this feeling and how it changes through that interpretation. Because the person who interprets their attraction to their partner as a natural consequence of their sexual urge — and nothing more — feels very different from the person who believes that it is one of the mysteries of life that gives meaning and awe to being human. Both feel attraction, but they don’t live in the same reality. Just like Pessoa reminds us:

“Civilization consists in giving something a name that doesn’t belong to it and then dreaming over the result. And the false name in conjunction with the true dream does create a new reality. The object does change into something else, because we make it change. We manufacture realities. The raw material remains the same, but the form art gives it makes it into something not the same. A pinewood table is still pinewood, but its also a table. We sit at the table and not at the pinewood. Although love is a sexual instinct, it’s not with sexual instinct that we love but with the conjecture of some other feeling. And the very conjecture is already some other feeling”
— Fernando Pessoa (Bernando Soares), The Book of Disquietude.

Sometimes it takes the passage of time for us to realize what exactly we felt or feel. We process what we’ve been through, and in one seemingly insignificant moment, while my mother mentions you, your image comes renewed with the colors of that internal processing. Everything around me stops. I no longer hear my mother, even though her lips move, nor does the television, and the deafening silence of my tired father that passively watches it, touch me in the slightest. Like in a choreography in which you need to omit everything that would distract your concentration from its perfect execution and only keep those things that would aid it, in such a distillation of the spirit, the only thing that remains is how I feel about you…and you were never more beautiful.

So beautiful, that the use of the “O!” as a poetic exclamation does not embarrass me for the use of a seemingly archaic way of expressing myself, because I finally understand the long tradition of poets that thought these exclamations were not mere literary artifices for melodramatic effect but symbols of a movement in the soul that is better left uninterpreted; that only the last letter of the alphabet can express its gravitas. It is said that the ancient Greek alphabet used to be a prayer, and that the series of letters was not the same as the current one, but rather ended with Ψ, Χ, Ω…Ψυχή, Ω μέγα!*

I am not raising you on a pedestal so I can kneel before you; I know your beauty depends as much on me as it does on you, because beauty is a relationship, and there would be no beauty if there were no mirrors of matter or soul. I’m with you on the same level and when I recognize you arriving in my consciousness, not like a distraction or reaction but as an action, I am flooded by a feeling of gratitude. Not because I owe you something, you owe me as much as I do – there are not debts in love – damned be the economists of the sentiments. But because you exist, because I exist, the way we are. We made existence a celebration instead of a sentence, all with just two bodies and a bed, while others struggle every morning in offices and fields, rummaging through papers and earth, instead of sheets and kisses.

A libation to you and me therefore; from the unknown from which we come from, and the unknown to which we’re going. Hallelujah!

*If you were to pronounce the last three letters of the Greek alphabet that way, it sounds as if you are saying: “Soul, O great!”

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About Author

Alexandros Lysios

Alexandros is a grateful recipient of erotic grace & a lifelong learner on honoring it. For more biographical info click here.


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