Metric of the Romantic Bond

Metric of the Romantic Bond

L. Edgar Otto    27 September, 2012

We imagine in our intuitions that we have shadow selves, perhaps a special other, a match of souls under unique stars which love projected contains the universe, timeless beyond

Everlasting & justification the bond consumes the interfering petty dreams of others never reached the heights, lesser existences.

We think in the main we are programmed to love our children and that is true to a degree for love born of clocks and motion.  Yet we know there is more than that code of love's dream if programmed or of broken bonds love self repairs.

A mother reports a special bond with the child she carries who shares the blood and the blood brain barrier while we see it as a romantic thing, a nice dream to believe, no ground in the arts and science beyond the facts of living in the flesh, memories ill or good stored and shared over time

Reports now in the popular press of our times powerful awakening of secrets, of our selves and of the starry sky

The child's cells as surely as that secret language not forgotten between twins of the same womb as if they are almost connected in reading each others pain and minds

The cells that stay in the body from the child after it born

acting to help the mother fight the even rouges that may arise as if these in stealth betray her, undermine immunity

provoke mutiny as if a mortal revolution, or failed immortal rebellion.  So too in her dreams her other souls vie to rule.

Inside her too, perhaps in the neutral passing through the code of her offspring left in her brain- amazed and suspected this the cause on a higher space of fading memory, brittle bones- all the higher genome that cannot light up the spiral chains nor act upon what such higher bonds can read.  But who knows at some distance close by the link is there that tunnels through such higher space, sharing fate and sentience?  How far back the chain of ghosts, ancestors?

Love has bonds still higher yet it metric in the magic we still do not understand or believe, never in the flesh to touch to share the waters or exude the sour bitter lipstick aftertaste in the testing of the salts, in the seduction into stealth of disease.

Dark is the magic of such potions that reach to you and read of you in the distance, pass through you without touching, jump the bones and jumping genes the world and soul barrier by which our heart decays or recycles in the building

at least in dreams where we in the higher place walk hand in hand and can hardly tell what by the shores is you or me or love or light or salt and see in the spiral born or broken shells and the sand.

There we have known the truth of things and held dialog past the beginnings and ends of dance and time no matter what the animal in struggle tells itself in struggle, in the sunlight, or with eyes and neck held high daydreams while the old tired gray mare cheated of her golden wings or cone of a unicorn just looks upward rather than tired and down, love once the consumed melting comet ice star grazer as if to have a cloak to make the superstitious think there is passion and wisdom the constellations of a thousand suns, she the stargazer.

We are more than stardust, you who only know whom I really loved...

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