I don’t know how far back it was when I really thought that, that love was all I needed — or in fact, if I was kidding myself in the first place. Who is it, these days, that would really die for love, as E. E. Cummings put it, “if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending”? Who puts such poetry into practice? I’ve thought in the most cynical bent, at least once, believing that no one really acts in behalf of this way, that all we’re talking about is some pretty words to get that special someone to go to bed with you. Something like that. It’s hard to think that some people would really go the whole way for the sake of a pretty promise — not out of pride, not out of obligation, but that they just felt that way, so deeply as to compel them.
What are we left in the world when we believe that way, though? When the enchantment lifts completely off of us, and all we are left with is a bleak solidity? Myself, I’d rather there be some magic in the world — if it has to be me who makes it for it to be so. Why not make up some pretty words and put my backside into it? Why not dare to live the dream? It is a better thing, then, that I do, than when I only believed in the words, the idea of it: let us bring the love of divine ideal and hammer out a facsimile into the waking world. Let us not complain that there is no marvel left in the world, but make it for ourselves, for all the world to see: that there is hope left for those who dream. It need not be anything miraculous that we bring about, but just that we do not forget what we say. That we commit to the promises we make, and make at least a few fabulous promises. Let’s not kid ourselves. Let’s live it, instead.
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