I'm lucky, I thought, that this decision means for me what all of your decisions have meant. Nothing less (by choice) and nothing more (by definition). The mere--though how inconceivably not-mere--conversation reaffirms it since its very existence presupposes the achievement of a goal I once told myself was unattainable.

I'm lucky, I thought, to have been "given" the "chance" by god, Bog, and the rest to make the "right" choices--properly understood--in the "right" contexts. Like Ms. Taggart, I realize that tomorrow is not an abstract understanding of impending difficult decisions and relentless quagmires. Tomorrow is another day of my life--another opportunity to demonstrate my love of knowing, beyond any doubt, the fact that I exist and understanding its implications.

I'm lucky, I recognize, to have found someone else--and how!--that understands the unintended evil, but evil nonetheless, behind the suppression of desire, behind the sacrificial slaughter of pleasure to asceticism, behind telling someone to withhold "I love you" not because it isn't true but because people believe that truth can be offensive.

I'm lucky, I recognize, to comprehend so clearly A is A and that which happens happens. And whatever "A" chooses to represent, it will be "nothing more" than proof of what I already know--because nothing more, in that sense, is possible.

I'm lucky, I know, to have a glimpse of your beautiful rational faculties even from hundreds of miles away, to have my lifevalues inexorably intertwined with yours, and, most importantly, to understand that no matter where our choices lead us--or to whom our choices lead us--my "luck" in life would have been remarkably lessened, and perhaps impossible, without your charm.

I know that regardless of your choice--not to discount my rational self-interest in the matter--my luck does not end where your decision begins. I love you because I love you. The recognition of that "I" is not choice-dependent. It is a constant, an absolute within the context of the recognition of my existence. It is, necessarily, a value-laden realization that whispers softly but with fervent desire:

Pssst! It was always lemon. And it always will be.

1 comment:

Brent S. Robida said...

i remember reading that rand saw at the end of every cigarette she smoked promethean fire. then she was diagnosed with long cancer, and she reported how confused and angry she was. don't think i don't see promethean fire in more than even the cigarettes i smoke, don't think i won't be angry when i'm consumed by a diagnosis, don't think others won't one day read about how i saw at the tip of the furthest reaches of my mind some material object clasped between two fingers, poles, disparities clenched for dear life. don't think i won't dare to report it, say, enunciate it even in a google blog posting. don't think i won't leave...my comment. i've forgotten my original thought, or maybe it has already died of lung cancer. maybe rand was consumed long before she ever inhaled, changed us long before she exhaled the expression of our hidden thoughts in high school when there was no one to write them down for me, not even myself. don't think because in the beginning there was the act.