I really sometimes wonder if I love right, love correctly, or if I love at all and am not just miming what I think, what I want, I feel.
I will go long loveless periods through life, happy and unthinking of what passions I am missing, unenvious of people paired in love, like a bright new boat at sea not thinking at all of the arbor.
But I think it may be harde to be mad than never to feel that madness ever, always to love on a level plane.What I love in oetry is that it is always, when done right, an attempt at saying what can never be said.
Hav of the poem in this collection I do not love, and mos I do not like and make me feel everything.
It is that everything becomes a messenger, a sign, a whisper of Love, even ugly and insignificant things, small things and silly trifles, and also big things that shake you, everything becomes a little boat which carries you off in a flash to that eeling of lonelines, of loving, of that person which you love which is absent.
Neruda knows, and writes of in his Love Sonnets, that ove is an ache.
One 's love is impinged upon by that smile they wear when you look at them a long time, or the way they carry themselves into the kitchen, or bend over to remove a shoe, or grab a pen and think a moment before writing; it is that flash of confusion on the face when they are afrai, or the tension which builds in their brow when they are stifling despair, or when they are afrai and they fidget just a bit.
When the brain and the heart are in discord, when one lies to oneself about what they want, what they love, what they need.Like in Roland Barthes' Lover 's Discourse, I am moved by Neruda 's understanding that to love is also to wait.
For one feels in love that before love their life was an empty mansio, unlivable.