Rose Of All Loves
Why is it, Lola, Rose of all Loves, Desire of every Romantic, Depiction of every Artist, Music of every Sound, Lola, that when I looked up at the moon tonight I found my thoughts sinking far below this house of bricks on a road of cement, drifting through the soil of squalid mud, under the feet of a thousand herds of cows, through the coldest currents of the English Channel and the wildest waves of the Bay of Biscay, amid the flourishing trees of Cantabria, the misty chaos of Madrid, the burning beaches of Andalucía, the warm drifts of the Mediterranean, the tempestuous coastline of North Africa, past the walls of Marrakech and straight into your head?
Why is that?
The moon, although alighted whenever we see it, feels a lot like darkness. For it is surrounded by it eternally, perhaps. But then so is the sun, so why does one feel dark and the other light, when both are lost in perpetual blackness? Either way, you, too, feel a lot like darkness. You are mysterious and capricious and forgetful and wayward and arrogant, all of which are the perfect ingredients for love, and, equally, all of which feel like darkness.
Furthermore, the moon is far away and accordingly seems small. Although it is, in fact, rather enormous, compared at least to me who is looking at it. You, Lola, are very similar. Far away from me, it cannot be denied, you are and have been for some time, geographically and mentally. Accordingly you seem to be very small whenever I think of you. As if you could fit on the end of my finger and if I tried to kiss you I would accidently eat you. Like a spider looking for food at night on the lips of the obese chronic snorer.
The moon appears to be fluorescently light and glowing, no matter how unspeakably restless and sombre the shine, but is nonetheless dotted profusely with patches of darker matter, be they mountains or dry lakes for it does not matter, as long as they are darker than the rest. You, too, radiate a particularly solemn gleam whilst, in time, revealing myriad patches of something less alight, something more sinister, and not only in colour.
In those ways you are like the moon.
However, the moon merely reflects the light given unto it by the sun and produces nothing of a shine itself, which I cannot relate to you, for it is in fact your delightful, distant body that gives me such a shine, as if you were the sun and I, indeed, were the moon. Despite the fact that I am larger than you.
The moon is also round. You are not. I need not explain, I suppose.
And in those ways you are unlike the moon.
So why do I think of you when I see it, bright and sad and looking down upon me with nostalgic melancholia?
And do you ever think of me?