Love, as in falling-in-love,
no longer exists for me.
Not fondness, not affection.
Not any of it.
I simply don’t believe in it.
And I see no value in considering it deeply.
I find no meaning in it
of any kind, no usefulness or purpose.
No interest in it
as a plot element,
or a conflict,
or a trope,
or a character arc,
or the subject of a poem.
Have I loved?
Yes, and now I renounce it.
No-love makes it hard to be a writer or a poet. What is left to write about?
I suppose there are still some themes.
You’d never know it by skimming the shelves of bookstores. It’s all love, love, and more love.
It even makes it hard to be a reader.
No Jane Austin.
I’m trying not to be pessimistic.
It’s not as if I can do anything about it—about the fact that no-love
makes half (or more) of all literature incomprehensible and foreign. False.
I guess my job now is to find out what I still do believe in.
Find those poets who understand me, who understand that falling-in-love is just a chemical trip.
There are other kinds of love.
I will write about them.