What a cliché it is to look up at the stars and immediately contemplate the woman I am lucky enough to now have in my life. What a particularly excavated mine of the collective consciousness this is!
Like hearts, like flowers, stars are for some reason inextricably connected with the idea of feeling strongly for something; they stand in quite nicely for that which we are unable to articulate.
It is at this point that we encounter the limits of language, and arrive at the end of the creative process: whilst I am of course convinced that the undiluted sentiment I keep in your name is stronger than any man has felt before, I have no fresh method of conveying this to you. Instead, I fix my eye upon one of the distant stars, a milky point of light indicating nothing at all.
Akin to a religious metaphor, the light at once becomes the carrier of everything that you are, have been, or ever will be. The idea of you is the light - ancient, fragile tendrils of energy that endure. This is truly the most powerful drug of religion; associating our own lives with that which is beautiful or inexplicable.
With such chains of reasoning - realising that the (apparent) characteristics of stars are similar to the (apparent) characteristics of love - can we examine the shadow of what we feel for another person, without ever being able to entirely access the full range of its properties.
I think of you as you travel towards me on a derivative path of starlight: millions of women have arrived in the minds of men this way over thousands of years. Light-years are traversed in a fraction of a second.
It is a challenge indeed to freeze the starlight and expel it from the firmament (here we go again!) of imagery trapped inside my head. I long to replace it with something new; something so that I can truly declare: you have liberated my mind, hence I belong to you.
