XVII (I do not love you…)
By Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance, risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this: where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
We are born.
We aspire to greatness
We fight the good fight.
We fight a few bad fights.
We fight against the odds.
Sometimes we win.
Sometimes we lose.
Sometimes we beat the odds.
Either way, we fight.
Mediocrity is the enemy and it surrounds us.
We get pushed, we push back (harder).
We get hit, we hit back (stronger).
We get knocked down.
We get back up again (faster).
….Until the day we don’t.
Mediocrity consumes us.
Or death does.
Either way; we die.
We die, fighting.
We die, struggling.
We die aspiring to be great(er).
We die trying to be better.
Murder in the first degree;
Murder by mediocrity.
Don’t use words you don’t understand. Or words that have meaning beyond your comprehension.
Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep. Or create expectations with fearful apprehension.
Don’t tell me things that just aren’t true. Or hide the truth behind beautiful lies.
But most of all don’t tell me this; don’t let these three words ever leave your lips.
Don’t tell me, “I love you.” I dare not believe it. For all love is, is merely a myth.