My Krishna..

My god you are a beautiful man. I cannot shake the vision of you. I strangely felt a peace leaving you yesterday. I know I am unable to ever hate you, leave you, nor forget you. I can happily report I did not shed a tear, though I did just now reading this. I did however have way too many thoughts of your hands upon me, the shape of your jawline, how desperately I wanted to kiss you. Just wanted to be in your arms, where my mind was still for a brief second, wrapped up within the wonderfulness of you. How hard it was to not try and spirit you away to my home, just so I could lay next to you, forget we exist but in eachothers arm, no matter how brief a time it was. How quickly time passes when we speak, how comfortable the silences are. No, we shall not see another renaissance any time soon Sir, but I will carry this time with you as my personal renaissance, even if I never see or hear from you again. You give me faith again that the beautiful does exist, coincidentally along side one of the most painful eras I have had to endure it what seems forever. Because I love you. There. I said it, and I say it again. I am so deeply in love with you. All of it, the good, the bad, the pain, the joy. You asked me to ponder what my response would be, to your hypothetical situation. What would I really do faced with you giving yourself to me entirely, I think you already knew the answer to this question, discovering you has made me feel I can take on the world, and I'm so bloody stubborn, I would possibly do a damn good job at it too. I would give you my world and shelter you for the rest of your days, because you are my King. But you know my love, being able to read you every morning, occasionally hear your voice, wile away some time with you, is seemingly enough? How and why?? Don't ask, just never stop being you, who you are for me.

Illusion trace the awkward flow followed by his hand, I built those walls of protection so carefully so strongly, and maintained them so well. Yet in an instant, with just one smile, one laugh, one sentence, all the mortar turned to dust, as those walls crumbled at my feet. How surprised I was to find you in my inner core. Come, sit with me, talk to me, tell me, how did you do that? How long do you plan to stay? You bring me warmth like the sun brings the earth in early spring, I am like that rose slowly opening, blooming. Watch me grow and know it is because of you. Flower of the foam, rise from the bitter sea. The hour of the full moon-tide draws near. Hear the invoking words, hear and appear, O arching sky above and earth beneath, giver of life and bringer-in on death. Persephone, Astarte, Ashtoreth. If I was the priestess, would you answer unto me? Oh my angel, my dearest dearest angel, ordinary mystics aren’t seeking paradise or the illuminated life. As far as they’re concerned, they’re already living in both. If harmony and dissonance are only opposite sides of the same sound, dare we confess to our mystics that we prefer Strauss and Liszt to Mahler? I was always told that mystics spoke the language of silence, that they lived by example, not lecture and text. But I was as wrong about that as I was about the nature of life. Just because someone has learned a lot about one thing doesn’t mean they know very much about all the other things, except, of course, if we discover we are indeed mystics. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there's an ideal vision of how things should be. This attractive image is both unrealistic and insidious. Each time you compare your actual life to the golden dream, you feel somehow inadequate. Now please stop setting yourself such artificially high standards, you are meant to and are allowed to feel all these emotions, and if you didn't I'd be worried that you had a frozen lump in your chest... Doctor! Doctor! you better come take a look at this...this man's heart has developed a protective layer of icicles around it!!! if you only knew, my heart has been in so much undeniable pain lately but I'm here and keep on surviving!

I just cannot bear the thought of life without you in it now. We’re stuck to each other with that cheap, tacky glue that never dries properly and gets hairs and other bits of icky dirt and effluvia stuck in it and ends up looking like a coughed up owl pellet, minus the skeletal bits. It’s horrible, trust me. But after much agonizing and mental self-flagellation I’ve come to the conclusion that being a romantic isn’t so bad after all. Sure, it’s a bit embarrassing. Sure, I cry in commercials and stupid fluffy movies more often these days. I vomited three times while writing this as its so sickly sweet!!! I've outdone myself yet again! HA! No one has ever accused me of having no sense of melodrama.

I dreamt this up last night.. We're in Paris... glorious, amazing and wonderful! We're staying in Montmartre, at the Terrass on Rue Joseph-De-Maistre, 18th Arrondissement which is high on a hill near the Sacre-Coeur, you can see all of Paris from here... we're looking straight down the valley at the windmill on the Moulin Rouge. It's just too beautiful. Tomorrow we're going to the Dali Museum. We plan to sit there and stare and do..well...not much else for a good while... after that we have managed to track down le Bateau Lavoir, this is where Picasso lived with Modigliani. And just down the road we have also found the homes of Van Gogh, Utrillo, Max Ernst, Pissaro and Toulouse-Lautrec. Don't ask me why this blows my mind, it just does. I have to see how it started for me, or at the very least, imagine it. Most of them are are rather drab-looking apartment buildings. It would be nice to have some plaques or signs posted on some of these buildings, but for the most part there is nothing to indicate the buildings' importance.

There is this amazing square where all the painters are, it's right by us, and I always have to visit it, it's always my first stop here! It looks like a German beer garden but full of artists! Its called the Place du Tertre, they're all hunched over easels and trying to earn a living from the tourists. The square is so crowded, but in fact the quantities of art for sale are regulated, 2 paintings per square metre!??? Crazy! This city always make me feel alive, it really pulls at my heart and makes me feel that there are people who understand the way I think. To be here with the man who encompasses this is almost too perfect.

Utterly amazing day! Imagine tiny streets and ivy-covered cottages that look as though they haven't changed much since the 18th century. And my waterproof mascara worked! We sat down in the most beautiful cafe, had a few drinks and I burst into tears, it may have also been exhaustion or the overwhelming power of this place. Of being there with you, my lover, my friend, my everything. We found this cafe on the rue de l'Abreuvoir, it has been reconstructed exactly as it looked back in the days when Utrillo and his friends drank there. It's housed in a 17th century house, where Renoir once had a studio. We also met this great old man, so much style, he was just perfect, and must've been about 85, he told us a story in very broken half english, half french. Apparently Montmartre was named after all the martyrs that were killed there in something like 250AD, they've even found a burial ground of Christian martyrs' bones to support the theory. I wondered how they could tell these bones were Christian Martyrs? He said supposedly, around this time, St Denis brought Christianity to Paris, and was promptly beheaded. You can see a statue of the headless St. Denis in the square Suzanne-Buisson now, I find it so odd that they'd erect a statue of this man, standing tall but without his head? but Mr Awesome Parisian Dude won major points for trying to converse with us, as well as plying us with very heavy red wine. We stumbled back up the hill.

The next day we went out again to find more treasures. They've remodelled the Bateau-Lavoir which is where Picasso lived and painted during his blue period, it was partially burnt down in 1970, it now harbours about 25 artist and sculptor studios!! It's surrounded by Chestnut trees??!!! We knocked on the door, some guy answered, didn't speak a word of English, but luckily I had a new Fauvist book under my arm, I flashed it at him and he showed us through the place. It was really eerie actually. Wooden floor boards, you could see the level below through them. But just beautiful. I don't know if it was just my view but the light in this place was almost pure white, and streaming, like sun does when it shines through dust. I know this light well, it is the same that radiates from you. My baby, my love, my panic, my awe, my instinct, my charm, my mystery, my moon, my Lord and my King.