Honor and love – what else – defy the usurpation of meaning by the Story of capitalism, because they require the notion of “enough”
Love is a prison of the heart
Says the infatuated:
You are my prison guard
we observe the armistice
between our shadows
we live in a world
of small things
Leading a life that will never be approved of
So there. This is what you have done.
Something inside is waiting until you are gone.
My highest morality is a travesty.
My greatest love, revolting.
My sacred ones, a blemish on your race.
My hatred, the purest thing I know.
Gentle lady, do not sing
Sad songs about the end of love;
Lay aside sadness and sing,
How love that passes is enough.
Sing about the long deep sleep
Of lovers that are dead and how
In the grave all love shall sleep
Love is aweary now
– James Joyce
, in which we are not immortal
but our identities dissolve in-
to one another and we are only
a little bit afraid to call it love
When we’re old and done
Meditation on love
Meditation on purpose
“Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: All of them make me laugh.” — W.H. Auden