An artist, an addict: they sat calm in the eye of the storm; fell in love in the most human way. Destruction is compelling from up close, but the peace in the eye of the storm is a diabolical illusion.
Love fatally to edge of your capacity to feel. Surrender to your inevitable demise.
In search of love and a safe place to land when love and safety are incompatible--the love you remember most, it violently snatched you up.
Long-lived love is technical; cool to the touch. It is a series of doings that create a sense of solid ground to stand on, to build on. It does not consume you. It does not open you all the way up and stretch you to your edge.
It is the rare moment that violates you, snatches you up, pulls you completely into the moment and demands that you operate at capacity. Life is, for the most part, an extended reprieve from the terror of being fully alive.
The artist creates, the addict uses; both clinging to capacity they know from a former life. No wonder they spot each other across this crowded room.