You forgot to answer

I’m jumping ahead to the next chapter (Jung) a little here but I can’t resist the temptation. My English degree MA was really more a degree in creative writing - poetry/archetype theory. Archetype theory is Jungian Psychology applied to the study of literature. Most of us in the program were studying literature in the same sense that conservatory students study music by learning to play one particular instrument. According to archetype theory, artistic creativity is a form of lucid dreaming where the manifest content of the dream is the life you live and the latent content is created by the way certain objects and events along the way are charged, as if with a capital offense, as triggers or keys which unleash or unlock an energy that is transpersonal rather than personal. These energies are not in us so much as we are in them. Jung understood sexuality much better than Freud. I’ll stop now. Anyway”””””. I went up to my eyeballs in this stuff when I was too young to know better and the result was:

You forgot to Answer

It's really better that you don't answer. That way I can continue making you up to order as someone I could love with a passion as pure and hot as a blue flame. Only the past or the future, only the lost cause or the desperate hope, ever burns that brightly. Perfection is seen but never touched. The here and now, the bird in hand, is never the bird that will lift you to heaven. You are sleeping and I am sitting by your bedside reading the same story you are dreaming in a book written many years ago by a wild man who lived in the woods with birds nesting in his hair and a bitter aching absence of remembered perfume haunting his nostrils forever more. "When I remember what to say" the wild man's book begins "you will turn and return to your senses, turn to find me standing in your shadow, chanting your true name like a ring around your finger". "You are dreaming a dream that isn't about what happens in the dream" it continues "but about what the dream is struggling not to say. Somewhere below the surface of the dream, in a darkness as rich and deep as chocolate or the exhaustion after spent desire, a blind fish opens her mouth and a blood curdling silence comes out. This silence fills the space were the name would go if you were to name your own desire, the space at the center of the story where the "why" sits making all that "what", "when" and "how" fit together to make a story about something real, about something important to someone. I am leaving now and the closing of the door behind me is one more tooth falling out of the head you dream with, out of the comb you pull through your hair, out of the night that goes on forever once you shut a final door."