AIMEE TACON

I have been thinking (like usual) about love,
why we are so obsessed with it.

Why we keep coming back to it,
when it is proven mediocre again and again.

I have never wanted something so much on the basis of so little.

Growing up, I was taught that the human race are endlessly unsatisfied.
Restless, poisoned by original sin, searching, longing, pleading – for God.

But it’s that very poison, they told me, that is the curse. That poison that makes gods of us. The desire to rule, to conquer, to be adored.

And I think that’s the difference.

I think it’s in my nature.

I don’t want a partner to love – I want a god to worship.

There’s a religion in it, a fervour,
and I want them to worship me back.

Isn’t that it? What we write and sing and scream about? The obsession, the fever, the body as a temple?

Maybe it’s quiet, like a prayer.
A church, a refuge, a place of peace.

Maybe it’s a dream?

Maybe it’s nothing at all.