Romantic Musings: For the Love of Gods

Once upon a time, the gods fell in love.

Secret poets who wandered the world disguised as humans, pursued their passions, and indulged in the innocence of intimate encounters. Maddened by the scent of human sensuality, they fled from their realm for the most unforgettable experience of all. Love.

Perhaps it is only fitting that the daughters of Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, are the Muses who inspire poets to recount the romances veiled by the shadows of time.

What then will become of us?

Will our romances be remembered?

Will the poets of tomorrow be inspired by our passions?

Will the Muses reveal the secrets of how deeply we loved?

I daresay the answers lie within our hearts. The symptoms of love pumped through our veins after an arrow dipped in the poison of passion infects us as it did Apollo.

Enter the writer.

Stage left.

Who comprehends love better than the poet?

Who clings to the innocence of the untainted heart as fervently as a hopeless romantic?

The writer.

It is no coincidence then that the cultural symbol for Apollo and other poets is the wreath he crafted in memory of his unrequited love, Daphne.

The writer is, in essence, the historian of the heart. Despite the confusions of love caused by the chaos of sweet obsessions and inexperience, we possess an innate understanding of the idiom of emotions.

We interpret the impressions left on our souls—sentimental verses akin to Enochian script—that lead us to deduce that a lover is an angel, and falling in love is a heavenly experience.

We are defined by our heartbreak and destroyed by our heartbeat.

When the potion of love is emptied from our goblet of fire, we drink the tiny droplets of tears that die on our lips.

The name of our love trapped in a whisper. Taken with the wind to the land of shadows where the dead linger and the gods search for the ones they once loved.

As mortals we are blessed with the unlimited capacity to love in a limited amount of time. That’s what makes our existence unique, for it is in these brief instances—like in the moment of creation—that desire burns hottest.

The gods envied us for that.

They needed us in order to experience true love, because it is love that should last forever. The memory of it should echo across time.

It is our destiny as writers to recount our experiences lest the purpose of poetry be forgotten, and countless others suffer the loss of the legends of love.

The few who remembered had begun to forget, because time is the sister of Death. She has no patience and cares nothing for the gods who once fell in love.

“The hottest love has the coldest end.” ~Socrates