When asked his definition of love, Bukowski responded by saying,”love is a fog that burns with the first day light of reality.”
Fleeting and transient, indeed. A veil that can cloud and confuse into a seeking; a searching. It is dissipated by the unmistakeable directness of the light of certain truths. Reality, not the charms of desire or expectation must illuminate in the darkened, husky smoke that often bewilders.
Even so, each dawn since returning from Europe, I went to unfurl my feelings, wear them on my sleeve with abandon. I let reality know I couldn’t be bothered even though it spoke to me through intuition. It tried to sober me up at times, but I kept drinking becoming more inebriated with my own surging. I knew that we would have to have a sit down soon, but I frequently rescheduled.
Deep down I knew that this “love” was teetering; unraveling, but I poured myself into it – I wanted to. Despite having had written about it weeks before, never sending my words off, thinking they were insecurities; I only really placated my intuition until there was no more fog.
The light shines bright now, bright enough to help me see. I needed to see.