Art of Love

It's a feeling. Art, music, dance - there lives in these a burning feeling which must be expressed and received. It's a feeling that lives in all of us regardless of age, experience, harbored pains, or erupting rare instances of joy.

It's a yearning. Performers, painters, poets - they sit before their audience so that both may share in this insatiable longing.

I listened to the music rise and fall, swell and throb not with a demanding pulse, but rather with a beat seeking for permission from what felt like my wide open chest.

I wanted to die from its beauty. I wanted to pass this world filled with boundaries, realities, and limitations to instead enter a world where I could open myself and take in this beauty in floods.

To say that such a feeling is ethereal and orgasmic would rob the music of its purity, adulterate the art, and turn the experience into a lowly, humanistic, "tangible" feeling.

My heart is beating so deeply now. I do not know if it is working any faster or slower than before I lowered myself into my place before the performers, the music, the poetry, but I am suddenly made aware of my heart's existence.

Perhaps, for my heart, art and love are intertwined in this way. One must exist for the other, to give the other meaning. One also is the other; the two become interchangeable and limitless. Each takes being only with the permission of the other.

And suddenly, before I know it, I'm breathless yet full of life; motionless yet throbbing with desire; completely enraptured by the love of art.

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