Dear Bluefish,
This is what happens, darling, when a man inflates himself to the extent that he becomes arrogant.
Like Icarus nearing the sun, he floats too close to his dream, and the dream is too real for him.
Even in my arrogance, I tend only two modest dreams in your name, the synthesis of which is (for me) love:
- to know not the fluctuations of every current in your heart, but to be able to assert with confidence in which direction the whole is moving
- to be able to ease (not cure) your medical condition
Yes, I have forgotten everything else, and in doing so I have damaged us, probably irreperably. Where I was once looked upon almost reverentially, I now see only disgust.
As is my crude way of behaving, I tried to derive love according to a specific, precise formula - current plus cure.
In my arrogance, I assumed that this would be the solution to everything. I cannot believe just how terribly badly it has backfired.
When I cried on Thursday, it was partly because I could (can) feel Bluefish slipping away from me, forever, and it was partly because I am required to come up with a response I simply don't possess. I must ditch the formulae at once, open the cage door, and exist alongside and for her, without any fear all.
To fear is to lose, and to plan is to minimise fear. What was a surfeit of hubris then is a crisis of inactivity now. The only structure which is permitted to remain is the one which points the way to the lack of a structure, and the eventual liberation of a summer which seemed endless.
