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  • Dear Kiki:

    Love can't be found. Not on a map. No longitudes. Nor latitudes can ever crucify it.

    You can search all your life, peering into microscopes and telescopes, slogging up Sagarmatha sliding down to Death Valley. It will still elude you.

    You will never find it. Nor can you buy it. Bribery also doesn't work. Fear. Coercion. Pleading. Manipulation. Chicanery. All useless.

    As long as you mistake, love for a thing, a person, a husband or wife, even a landscape, it will always abscond, quickening beyond your grasp, a will-o-wisp, a phantom, the shadow of a vulture, mistaken for a golden eagle.

    Love happens. Despite everything. Our misery. Our vanity. Our heckling ego. Our cast-iron hearts.

    It waits without wanting. It listens without judgment. It seeks nothing. Yet, gives everything.

    Love cannot be grasp. Like containing the ocean with a sieve. Or caging the sky. Too vast for our puny hands.

    You need not do anything. No penance on bended knees. No whips of self-flagellation. No need for stupas for circumambulation. No rosaries to recite.

    Just be silent. Be still. Be vigilant. The door opens without a creak. Just wait.

    Romance dies. People die. The world will die. One day all this will be gone. But one thing will remain. Always.


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