“Money won’t buy you love”, someone once assured me, “but it will get you a damn good reproduction”.
Sorrow, in contrast, almost always arrives free of charge. Even the deepest grief turns up unsummoned, without ever having to dip into your pockets.
This truism seems verified in any study of the magnificent Countess of Bagsværd.
If I read her biography correctly, she did her utmost to find love, paying dearly for her efforts.
Her greatest and last passion destroyed her, quite literally, terminating her existence among forfeited love in a miserable pawnshop in Vesterbro, surrounded by hocked effects related quintessentially to either love or sorrow.
She retained a sense of elegance, I feel, in her whiskey-drenched descent.
Even decay may accommodate a dash of sensual pleasure, and that is dearer than love and sorrow.
I doubt that life after death is a reality, at least not of a nature comparable with that existing before demise – Why so should we die? One might ask.
Yet, perhaps while existing we live a parallel life, drifting in a sort of ethereal, insubstantial actuality; and there are those surely who live close by, just there behind the scenes, in self-induced delusion.
Some are wont to live more resilient and profound lives than most, until normality, the ordinary, overtaking them, squashes breath out.
They perhaps managed to experience love in their contrived backdrops. And although this love died an unhappy death, it did once exist.
For those skilled in its recognition.