If only I could tell you how I feel tonight… your very unreachability makes you a prize : it is as you told me, although I do not believe for one moment that desire and love are the same thing. And there it is; this great, maligned, abused, irreplaceable and impossible word, metaphor of all metaphors, symbol of our desire to be cared for, care for, be accompanied, find companionship, end our days not alone.

I struggle to stay in touch and I struggle to stay out of reach, with both of these struggles connected by the same impossible "thing".

There is not that much more to say…

Impossible things sometimes are all the more impossible because we tell ourselves these fairytales of the clean and pure world – and yet we both know enough about the slings and arrows of such fata morganas, and how imperfect things can be beautiful because they are alive and constantly damaged and repaired.

I wish this were easy but it never will be easy. If these were to be my last words it would not be, and if they were but the start of yet another imperfect episode, it would cost me as dearly as dreaming about it.

Choice will lead to imperfection, that much is clear. What to choose is not as clear, but at least I know that even without choice I can stay silent in certainty of the impossible word: keeping at heart the metaphor and the symbol, because I know and hold dear the reality I see behind them, like the garden behind the moiré of steel we saw in Morocco that day.