SHE IS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN THAT MAKE A SEAPORT CITY'S HISTORY,
WAITING TO HEAR, TO GAZE UPON AGAIN, HER LOVER ACROSS THE SEA.
Elle est l'amour fou.
Sometimes she is all love. Sometimes she is all pain.
Sometimes she is bewildered, as well as fearful, self-doubting, self-loathing even, to be so in love with someone who shares a love and working relationship with another woman. She asks "What am I doing? Why is this love of mine for him so undeniably strong, powerful? How did this happen... that I am here and he is there?"
A voice deep within her repeats..."Je raffole d'amour"....a mantra...the love-spring of hope...the love-well.
"A noite do meu bem.......".
She throws herself into intense analysis again; her analyst stating that she needs to be reminded that it started in an exceptional way with two exceptional people. That HE was so exceptional that she has made exceptional allowances in an exceptional situation and have allowed herself to be involved in something she usually would not condone.
Exceptional people, exceptional circumstances, exceptional love.
Sometimes though she claims embarrassment, humiliation even by her own uncensored out-pouring of
emotion, vulnerability.
She then courts disillusion, she consumes disappointment, replete with doubt. She feels diminished in some unforgetting way. She is patient. She is placid. She is sad.
Elle ne peut pas oublier, elle ne sera pas oublier.
There is not enough wine, there are not enough pills. There are not enough excuses. There are not enough tears but there can be too many tears.
She was so shocked that he would make her cry. She was struck immobile.
Elle ne doit oublier, mais elle ne peut pas oublier.
She has poured out her heart to him, as he has written of her "magnificent words of love". Yes, to him, often, to him, who is not here.....the vastness of absence.
Those very magnificent words of love are also magnificent words of mourning.
She can shake her fists at the heavens, but God, like love, is a verb.
