Directed Prose: Martyrs, Jeans, and Wine


What is left in this world beyond beauty? What, without charm, is worth living for anymore? What doesn’t pass away with the morning tides, but memory? What does my heart spill that a love has not inspired? The answer to all my questions is always nothing.

The madness of structure and of obligation ceases to matter when I answer your calling, and we slip into a world detested by most; Detested because they have no way of knowing, no common ground to understand the necessity of oblivion and of disguises. They see our utopia as our mask, but they would be appalled to find that the only mask we wear is the only face they’ve ever known us in. Our love and our imaginations fill the space between us and we become one mind, likened unto the same goal, like Christian martyrs, scraping the flesh that condemns us, poetically dying for a cause that yields no results here, but in an unknown future.

We slave in the seen for what it produces in the unseen because we know that the treasure we have laid down for ourselves in our hearts is more valuable and enduring than what short lust we could produce through all manner of touch. And we love all of our unloveliness. While I know how I’ve accepted yours, I am indebted and befuddled by how you’ve so easily loved mine. You are my downfall, dear blue, for you symbolize my weaknesses. You are the human manifestation and the figurative embodiment of all that I outwardly despise and inwardly worship in myself. Simply put, you are the sex and the drugs and the complications.

There’s no need for any more words, love. We’ve used them all before in ferorciousness, with reckless abandonment, but without regret. Our love is like an old pair of jeans, tattered and torn, filled with holes and showing signs of distress. It is the character of our lives, it is the product of living a full life in the shortest amount of time. We are an old wine placed in new wineskins, remembering the days of when we were yet just young little grapes, walking the vine, until one day we found each other… and rather than move aside so the other might pass, we decided to, together, be crushed and made into the sweetest juices and placed in the finest of glasses on the set and made dinner table of G-d.

You are my favorite pair of jeans; You are my favorite brand of wine.
Without you, I am trendy trash.
Without you, I am a dull wine to burnt tastebuds.

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