We/ are we/ random

A conversation is an overture to many things: the next conversation, kinship, love. Cross this out. We redirect, retract, swerve--we talk about the weather. We hesitate to talk about love because we are proud, we are strong, we are practical, level-headed creatures; we would rather talk about things that matter--the stock market, the upcoming elections, your neighbor's latest acquisition, my last meal, your next.

And inside our heads, a voice, cooing a soliloquy: But my love, you are my miracle.

We snort at sentiment. It is shallow, it spells weakness. We are strong. We do not talk about love. The world will turn without love. We insist.

Abdicate, my love. Because the world is ruled by numbers. Ejected by the maths, the story of Eros and Psyche remains a myth. Yet we die a little at love's facelessness.

We do not admit this. We would rather have plotless dreams when we are asleep. Or grind our teeth.

We concatenate one chance with the next, and come up with a kaleidoscope of flukes. Where do they all go? We wonder. We wonder, and wonder, and on the surface, we are placid bodies of water. Stagnant, too, the voice. And on and on, we insist--what is dilatory must stay hidden.

Serendipity is underrated (or is it over? I can never tell) -- you are here because you filled out an application form; I am here because I had nothing better to do. We will never walk the same line; this conversation is flimsy. It will never hold. Art is for the foolish, I heard somebody say. But he who is not moved by sunsets and violins must have some serious searching to do, yes? My teacher agrees. Even Euclid had feelings, I'm sure. But where is it written?

There is a mathematical formula for everything. Yes, even love. We talk in tangents; the parallels outrun each other. We measure and throw away the excess. Love is an excess. We throw love away, we erase it. Or pretend to, at least. And then we cope by subterfuge.

"There will be time, there will be time," wrote one T.S. Eliot, and "Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ would it have been worth while,/ to have bitten off the matter with a smile,/"-- oh, hapless heart, what do you beat for? Who?

Stop that sighing, the minutes are ticking, we do not have time.

We do not talk about love. Let Apollo chase Daphne to the ends of the earth. It is a myth, as love is. Turn off that music in your head, and let's be productive, instead, so resume brainstorming, snack on these data, reconcile those figures. There is no you, there is no me.

But look, my love, you have turned into a tree.