Love
11.15.04
I have found, as a writer, that it is much easier to write about love when
you're not mixed up in it. To have a feigned obsession with the motions,
with the beauty of this crazy world is much healthier to express than to
dwell on small details; a pebble in the crack of passion. Because that
pebble becomes a boulder, that boulder a crater, and the hole in your world
thus expanded. Sparce trees could not survive this, what makes you think
you can? Their branches are far more thick, and most importantly, their
roots firmly in the soil. I'm afraid yours, my friend, are not. And this is
why I love love. Because what do we really know about love, in the
universal sense? Are we not all unique? The question of what is love is a
timeless one at best, and one can assume it can never be fully understood
until their life brings them through the stages that fate has laid out for
them. How now then, my Prince Charming? My Juliet, a primrose in the
valley of thorns. How do I know you are real, and more importantly, how do
I know this is real, the pressure building in my own chest?
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