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Thoughts on Eros

August 11, 2009

Eros: one of the oldest gods, and one of the youngest. He brings love and hate with his arrows of gold and lead, shot straight into the hearts of the unwary. He is, like Aphrodite, quick to judge and quick to forgive; and he is, like Khaos, endless and infinite. He is at once the winged babe, the dancing boy and the sleek youth of love. He carries lovers’ gifts in his arms and fondly ruffles the hair of those he passes. He is Aphrodite’s more human face, and yet he is far older than her, born from Khaos’ creeping mists.

He is the bitter-sweet love of life, of love, of the world and of one’s soul. He draws his arrows and loosens them on the hearts of those who do not respect him – and those who do respect him. No one, god or mortal, is safe from his touch. Only his respect of Choice forces him to stay his hand when he would otherwise strike at the virgin goddesses with his all-consuming arrows.

He leads the winged loves, the Erotes, in their fluttering flight in Aphrodite’s footsteps. He treads child-delicately and youth-heavily, and he throws himself into love with the reckless abandon of Love itself. He sneers at those who would refuse his passions, and spreads his wings to cover those who follow where he walks. He lives in the company of the gods, but often prefers the touches of humans. He is sharp and cold and hot and soft, wild and civilised, dangerous and peaceful. He is the quick-fingered child-keeper of the heavens, the earth, the sky and the seas.

He is the reaction, the fizzling catalyst who inspires love and hate – equally, and at the command of his laughing sometimes-mother, Aphrodite. He is the playmate of Ganymedes, cupbearer of the gods, and the husband of Psyche, the love of oneself, the soul. He is the father of pleasure and the son of beauty, of night, of nothing and everything. He brushes his hands, feather-light, over the cheeks and lips of his flushed, open, beautiful wife and inspires lovers everywhere to follow his example. He is masculinity and he is feminity, he is the eternal child who gives cheeky smiles and wears his heart on his sleeve.

He throws himself into everything—love, tantrums, joy, pain—and expects the same of his Erotes. He dances with nymphs and muses and plays at the feet of the Moirae. He holds himself to a moral code at once distant and similar to our own, and he refuses to rest his red-hot lips on the brow of those who do not do him justice. He is sin and virtue, platonic and sexual love, he is passion and need and thrumming, pulsing love.

He wraps his arms around his wife and daughter, and all he asks of those who would follow him is that they do not hurt the ones they love. He kisses his little-girl daughter on the forehead and his butterfly-wife on the lips, and he smiles up to his smiling, golden mother. He plays in night and day, dusk and dawn, and his influence is always circling, a hazy red smoke that curls around the skin of lovers and lets them bask in his glow. He blesses with his delicate fingers and draws his teeth over intertwined bodies, and he laughs and basks in his own glow.

He is Eros: the child, the lover. Love.

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One comment

  1. […] are some quotes I think you, if you’re reading this, might enjoy: Thoughts On Eros He is the bitter-sweet love of life, of love, of the world and of one’s soul. He draws his arrows […]



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