And think not you can direct the course of love,
for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires,
let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings
its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of
love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give
thanks for another day of loving;



The Prophet
Khalil Gibran

Wednesday
December 2, 1998
Home

It's hot here now. Glary grey sky, wind blowing sand and sticks. Threatening to rain. Wait today for the weather to break.

I'm so tired, slow, wrung out. Unable at present to concentrate on the simplest of things. Mind wanders, far away in a room of yellow wood.

It's an absence of feeling really. More disturbing than rushes of anger, pain or sadness. The still, blurry feeling of nothing leaves me numb, removed.

I wonder when it will pass, or surface. The dull, dissolute absence of the pain and sorrow that I know must be there. I'm not doing very well here. Struggling really.

I ache for time alone. That time when no one is about. Late in the night, with only the creaks and moans of the house settling to keep you company.

I want to lie down and drift away. Float on water. Borne away by the tide. Child of the moon. The untold bliss of floating on the silvery tide.

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For My Listening Pleasure
The Dirty Three
Ocean Songs