The Thing Called Love

The Thing Called Love

You chuckled and cackled when reading a braggadocio of some individual that he was a champion in the Love Department. He insinuated that among the group comprising of two hundred plus members, he was the love object of many ladies (not in the group), more than any man in the group. You didn’t believe his assertion at all. He might have more money than anybody else in the group, but as for being the ladies man, he simply was not qualified. He didn’t have the right stuff.

Last night you posted the multi-media presentation of the immortal poem “Ngay Xua Hoang Thi” in the forum MC. You commented that the printed poem, the music and the photography set to the lyrics made viewing the production an unforgettable experience and that the viewers would be transported to a realm of ineffable beauty.

Ineffable beauty is what you have been after all your life. To you, few things come close to an experience of ineffable joy and serenity when somebody tells you with all sincerity that she loves you. You are now sixty three years old. Without trying hard on your part, thirteen (that's right, it's not a typo) women have told you that they loved you. Out of those, maybe two really did. There are two others who are chasing you right now. You have what commonly referred to as magnetism, a charm and a force that women are drawn to. You imagine what your love life would be if you are less diffident and more willing to spend money and time to court women of your interest. Instead, you let chance and serendipities rule your life. You drift in and out of the zone of ineffable beauty. Meanwhile you pine for long gone memories, write jejune verses of falling in and out of love and of missed opportunities, and are overcome by songs like Traces, Feelings, and Ngay Xua Hoàng Thị

You are now experiencing all kinds of ailments. Your looks have faded. Your body is breaking down. Your money is being depleted. And you are getting difficult and cranky. Yet somehow you read and fantasize about a love that transcends time and space and makes everything else in life pale in comparison. Yet you dream of a woman who would deliquesce into your arms after you touch her lips with yours, and would tell you inarticulately and passionately that she loves you with all her heart and with everything in her purse. You can dream about her. Dream is all you can do, for you are a poet, a dreamer, a romantic at heart. You can’t help yourself. Dreaming is part of your make-up, of your DNA, of what makes who you are, of making you feel alive and full of zest every morning when you get out of bed. Dreaming forces you to take care of yourself, to read, to study, and to watch your finance.

Day of dreaming.