"... he who knows cannot tell"

I love you... Words so familiar, so ambiguous floating in the air. They've got no more substance than a fugitive light that blazes in front of the eyes and leaves a trace that slowly disappears.

What are the motivations behind these words? Would it be desire, abandonment, devotion, selfishness? How to know without defining what love is, or perhaps it woud be wiser not to define it at all:

"Keep away from the authority who tells you what love is and what it is not. No authority knows; and he who knows cannot tell". Jiddu Krishnamurti.

I have been always fascinated by love that seems unreal or impossible, love that survives in the absence of the beloved. Or love that remains chaste, as if once consummated it would estrange the lovers. Love that lives in the imagination, frustrating any real experience, as it remains unreachable: an everlasting illusion...

Is it Love?

Inside of me is someone, something I know is mine but which I can never own. Somehow it guides me by making me blind. It shows it's face when threatened with truth. It prefers silence over symphony and darkness to illumination. It sees through moments to anticipated pasts and irrevocable futures. And it distances itself from me by remaining indefinite and inconsistent...

Love of people, love of buildings....buildings that are soulmates with each other, rooms to make love in, rooms that nurture or destroy love, doors in rooms that open to love, lead to love, locked doors, in love with moving from room to room.....a journey through time and love, moving through spaces that make a path whose metaphor is love....can architecture embrace all this or is it limited by part of its nature as a setting for love?

"Should anyone here not know the art of love,
read this, and learn by reading how to love.
By art the boat’s set gliding, with oar and sail,
by art the chariot’s swift: love’s ruled by art."
Ovid (Ars amatoria)

narcissus

is in love