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A love story L and J Loving Epitaph: Prologue.♥️
Loving Epitaph
Because men can also love. Because men can also be betrayed. Because there are still some romantics left. Because our love is or was unique.
Prologue:
The word I most wanted to say is « idiot. » It’s not a pleasant word, it’s not a friendly word, but it’s an affectionate word. What has she done to make me love her so much? So little, except that I’ve known her since she was nineteen. We’ve been through storms and raging mountains; we’re now in a hundred-year war. She doesn’t think further than the present and the recent past; I track the ideas of a Mars of yore, and I guide myself with the omens of the winds of yesteryear.
Her flammable rationality burns up in a few hours of ideas, when mine forges bronze until it is blinded. The hazy minds may forget that L. and Julien loved each other. Up to the altar of heroes, up to the gates of tombs, I will go and cry my suffering from the desert, from desolation. I won’t let anyone say, except for the death of my father, that her betrayal wasn’t the worst. I won’t let anyone doubt that in my heart, she alone kept the keys to happiness. I will fight, no matter what, until the last drop, like Orpheus for Eurydice, to save her from a life so smooth. I will take the torrents of hatred and mud to divert her from the wise advice of the owls. I will stand alone against those who court her, armed with a truth that serves me poorly, always sincerely for her. I will never deny myself, it would be the lowest offense I could inflict on her. I love her, I look at her, even if far away, my prayers to Mary protect her.
Eternal love does not exist. A truism that leaves one speechless. To live without danger, one lives without glory. Glory is nothing in love, as honor is everything. She betrayed me, that’s all, trust doesn’t come from forgetting. And if… And if she looked at me with a languid air. And if she muttered magic spells. And if she invoked witchcraft. And if she caressed my sleeping hair. And if she wrote the story of a frozen rebel. And if she told me that the cemetery of our hopes lied to the brightness of our history. And if…she took back the course of our lives. I would willingly believe her; eyes, heart, and fists tied to the tenderness of her will.
I have no direction. I travel at her discretion. Slave to her moods, I count the hours. A full hourglass wanders on a beach of words. Little talkative, she reserves the mask of the nix for me. The passenger darkens when she sees herself as a white dove. She exaggerates my shadows. I feel her light, dizzy from the wave. I write to exorcise the lies. I write an epitaph to my enemies who laugh. I write so that the words will engrave my love and my pain among the eternal letters.
I want her to know what she’s losing, and what she could regain. Behind the hieroglyphs of our forgotten loves lies the acme of a passionate rebirth. The proximity of a Lethe where love and happiness rhyme motivates me to cast my final sparks in the hearth that’s dying out of our forgotten passions.
My pursuit is not one of conquest. I borrow the path of a scream from the depths, as Oscar Wilde once did, while hoping for a different fate. I want to touch her, to stir her, to transport her into silver clouds, to summon memories of past sweetness, but also to let her breathe the sulfurous earth on which my heart burns during countless hours.
And finally, to open my arms to her, to speak with her soothingly, with the voice she loves so much, to reassure her, to forgive her, to look at her once again as the most beautiful promise, and to live our fleeting hours on the brink of joy.
Forget about May 16, 2021, the liberated deceit, the unhealthy carriers. Forget the images of a shipwreck worthy of the raft of the Medusa, of a poorly painted Gericault, when she masters the painting of colors, energy, if not the drawing. Forget the carefree words, a catharsis for her need for innocence. Forget that I was her beloved, that she chose, even if she doesn’t know it, by the alchemy of the heart to transform into a damned. Forget… maybe even forget her…
Now, here is our story.
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