You don’t want to know me.
I have confused obsession, delusion and greed for true love.
That twists hundreds of love poems into daggers of meanness: each poem says “I care about my fantasy about love more than I care about you.”
Does it wreck this book as well?
The narrator is compromised. His love story is not true love, nor is it even madness; it is just a mean boring lie.
How did this all go so wrong?
And how could this narrator write with Beauty when he’s so selfish and dishonest at that spot where heart and mind give rise to thought and action? Clearly he is failing to illuminate his conscious space with the Light that Knows and that is thus the only aspect of our consciousness wise enough to lead the whole!
How can this jerk write a book about Pure Love overwhelming all, healing the Hurt, and providing a foundation for a shared philosophy that can help people better share democracy?
This is a failed project.
But what do I have without the project?
Lonely, tired, rat on a wheel, running nowhere fast.
And feeling always sick over what has passed between us.
What should I do?
I have refuted my own life, disproven its premises, or at least my own interpretation of my own philosophy.