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Valkyrie and the Chosen Brave


Somewhere between here and Valhalla, I realized a love worth loving. And I wrote privately, without counsel from Language, that your blood is somehow more blood, and your body more a body than any of comparable mass. Your teeth are the very teeth I learnt could chew, and your foot comes down more a step than any step every laid. Somewhere your rib, the most solid bone-yellow beam, fortifies a cage unlike any other. It is as if it were the only true cage, and behind that, the heart pounds more generously and with greater intent than an entire nation of hearts. But real love flees from the word, and the flight is superficially short - a shortness that mocks the metaphysics of emotion in such an unforgiving way, and with a wet snarl. So that flight lasts only in love, and that love does last and can be measured in the tiny, rhythmic contractions of some soul's warm, pulsing core. And why, in the name of Heaven, should one impose upon this lasting triumph only to recite again and again some solemn pledge? Only to watch the words charge out with wild, propagandistic abandon and bully the body into its deepest bunker, lithe soldiers to their posts, all other faculties crowd the strategy board and flatten so radically against it. That flatness. It is a critical symptom of plagiarized passion, that basic willingness that seems to almost lack humility. What contrived ceremony. Like picking ripples from a wave and naming it an ocean. There's no world for this lofty love, no word. A cage unlike any other cage, perhaps, for want of a better word.

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