The Taste of Love
By: Patrick M. Ohana
Tags: Taste, Love, Prose, Obsession, Muse

The Taste of Love

I love my muse so much that it feels a bit scary. No! A lot scary. I’m afraid for my life. But then, I don’t really care about my life that much. I live and one day I’ll die. It’s pretty standard. But then I also eat very healthily which contradicts the first premise of me not caring about dying. Well, I only follow the healthy food way to avoid pain and suffering, which between you and everyone else, is a great deal. I almost have no pain and suffer very little, except for some old back thing against which cannabis does wonders. That is, of course, until the muse appeared in my life in late November. It would be closer to the truth to say that I appeared in her life since my life is now entirely hers. I think that I would do almost anything that she asked. I only use “almost” because there are no absolutes. Everything is relative, except, of course, for love.

I’m afraid for my life if she asks. A muse often acts as if she was a woman like any other woman but, of course, she’s not. Hell, no! A muse is a goddess, and she’s real, unlike the mythological beauties who nonetheless were Woman. A muse can entice you to lick her toes as if they were big nipples. And I would because I know what they would taste like. Love has a taste, you know, and it’s the same taste for everyone. But you have to be in love, deep heart-wrenching love, to taste it. I think that I did with my muse and I can’t get enough. It’s a drug. It must be her pheromones, or something more elemental. The thing is that it’s impossible in my case because she lives on the freaking Moon. It’s so far where she lives that it might as well have been the Moon. The difference is not astronomical.

So, how did I taste love? That’s the question and I think that I found the only plausible answer. I tasted love through the words that she wrote me, and she writes me a lot, but not every day. There are sad days when I don’t read one letter, not even a dot. But there are greats days when her words keep flowing back and forth like love. I feel love through her words. And even now, typing this story, using my words, some words are hers and they tend to control the intensity but only in one direction. I’m always left heavy-hearted, not knowing when, how long, and what does the future hold. A muse is not good news. A muse is a painful blessing. My connection is virtual, even worse, only words flying almost at the speed of light, sometimes accompanied by images that only make me suffer even more. And yet, I want more, as much as I can get to be able to reconstruct a semblance of her whole.

But I wouldn’t change a bit. Well, I would change a few things, but some things are permanent and thus cannot be changed. Wisdom would suggest that such a relationship should be severed to stop all the pain, from both sides because the muse is also suffering and in pain, and I cannot surmise to what extent, yet. I can only estimate and my estimation is unreliable, so there’s no point in even mentioning it. Love is unwise. Love will never be wise. Love only considers the present. There is no past when it’s a new love. As for the future, it can either run on reality or on dreams. I tend to prefer the reality bit because touch is involved and all the rest. Dreams can be nice, even fantastic, but they are still only dreams. A dream is a different type of masturbation. What else is a dream? The nightmare is simply when you can’t masturbate somewhere in your unconscious, and there, it’s like quantum physics, the strangest things can occur.

So, where am I going with this? Nowhere, it seems. I’m just exhausted but not tired. It’s a strange feeling. Part of me wants to sleep and the other wants to write, to try to communicate with the muse. It’s always the muse as it should be, since that is love. Love ain’t easy. It’s a travesty, but that’s another very sad story. Love is like a badger. At one point the badger gives up either to move on or die. It’s a clear choice. Move on! The problem is that the muse is never gone. She’s like the long day but I prefer when she’s like the long night. Life ain’t easy since love is always included, and when it’s missing, life is unbearable.

Patrick M. Ohana