Oh, Sonya!
How could I possibly overdramatize that which feeds on, preys on, gorges on the dramatic? How could that kind of love be sated? How many words could fill that cup? How many touches? How many glances? How many mistakes, misunderstandings? How many ups? How many downs? How many times could you live this life without bloody passion, without sacred scorn, without radical redemption, tumultuous temptation, and inspirational ink upon the page? How could you live without drama?
Without drama we are lifeless.
Who we would be if we did any differently? Who would you be? Who would I be? Who would take care of us? Who would shelter us? Who would love us without passion? Who would dream of us without drama? Who would yearn for us without that lust for life? Who would save us from boredom? Who would deliver us from temptation in a world without interest?
Without drama we are boring.
What would it look like, a life without drama? What worth would there be in such a life? What would you do to me in a world without pleasure and pain in all its extravagant extremities, its excessive exuberance, its decadent desires and divine dramas? What would life be without tragedy, without triumph, without tribulation? What would life be without the pulsating roar of the crowd, the hearts beating in unison, the people united by dramatic conquest of the world stage?
Without drama we are lost.
Where would we find our place in such a world? Where would we be safe in a world without love, without imperfection, without mistakes, without sacrifice? Where would we hide ourselves from the machine inside all of us, the rational region of control that would enslave us all to its will, that would make a world without colors, without drama, without mistakes, without time, without relativity, without romance, without fate, without God, without magic, without mystery, without murder, without mayhem, without rape, without religion, without trees, without forests, without fields, without anything beyond the machine. Where would we be in such a world?
Without drama we are the machine.
When will we find true love? When will we see spring again? When will we be free? When will our struggles end? When will our lost sailors return? When will the rivers flow clean again? When will our people be restored? When will their lands be liberated? When will righteousness rejuvenate our religion? When will our savior return? When will we ever stop asking these questions? When will we ever reject our dramatic drives? When will we ever give up on the dream?
Without drama we are dreamless.
Why would we ever give up the dream? Why would we ever let these summers end? Why would we ever give up our love for each other? Why would we ever give up our lust for life? Why would we ever give up our religion, our culture, our heritage? Why would we ever give up our old ways, our love for the land, our connection with the spirits, our traditions of tragedy and triumph and respect for those who came before? Why would we give up these stories? Why would we give up the words that bind us? Why would we give up the power they had? Why would we give up the magic of romance and mystery? Why would we let our world be governed by reasonable machines without passion?
Without drama we are dead inside.
Who, what, where, when, and why would life be without passionate poems, romantic revelations, wise words, terrible tragedies, sultry sonnets and sacred symphonies, mighty monologues and manic melodies, ancient archives and acrobatic alphabets, delicate dances and dynamic duets, heartfelt horrors and heroic hymns, fearful forests and fateful fields, steady streams and steadfast stories, lovely landscapes and lurid lusts, nostalgic narratives and narrative narcissists, clapping crowds and cackling clowns, zealous xylophones and zany zoos, church choirs and chittering chimes, organic organs and old opera, grandiose giants and gargantuan gods, jelly jams and jolly jives, quaint quotes and qualifying quests, brave battles and bloody beasts, exuberant expressions and exotic experiences, your yearning for yesterday’s yarns?
Without drama we are ugly.
So, how could I see you, Sonya, and not be dramatic?
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