Why is love so sought? Lifted above every other thing? There are other spices, other scents, and tastes. Textures rich and sharp to the skin, colors blossoming and violent that strike the mind into realms real and imaginary. Rooms that are passed through only once, where even if one were to touch and consume everything; the furniture—the light coming through the windows—the voices and bodies filling space—the emptiness of the doorway would draw one onward. And memory grasps only a little, leaving a wanting that is a small death in the body, but if dwelled on can lead to the stagnation and murder of the entire organism itself.
Want must be guarded against. Feed it as you would a pasture, letting it grow and blossom into beauty and bounty, until the reaping comes, and then harvest its lifeforce, cutting the stalks low again, down until only the roots remain. Then move on, planting other seeds, reaping other desires. You kill what you love. That’s because love is want made flesh, through you. Embodying such a phenomenon, that is meant only to consume, one must take care, and in supping on the richness of your desire, spare the roots that gave it birth. Feast until the hunger is sated, then in comfort and exhaustion, disrobe your want and take up your nude mortality again.