I’ve seen in its ideal, Love as identity. Love as entity. (I presume from experience, moods are immortal.) They’re aesthetic; they’re tragic. A precise mood can carry one through a storm, or serve as segue to some mystique joy. (One doesn’t mention it. It doesn’t mean it’s not alive, as in, with motion.) A mood can distinguish a given receptivity, encourage determination, or end traumatically. Let’s venture upon an ecstatic mood, engendered by intimacy—to exact happiness,
some rear creature, in giving one life, honor and existence; indeed, to embark upon a life of joys, intimacy, determined with a given ease. Two persist in each other, gregariously, feeling isolated, cheerful, thankful for Love. Mood is therefore sacred, adored, with a hint of melancholy. It’s an oddity how it seeps in. Maybe from an inner sanctum, realizing mortality, feeling uncertain in some sense, fretting worthiness. Some part in self, yearning against its happiness. Something to live
with. Indeed, moods shift; to adore, moved by adulation, to glance at Love, a mood to zap itself, filled with raindrops, way more complicated than it ought to be, or is it? Life has compartments. Each has mood access. A writer will face conundrums. Each coming with a given mood. Sameness reigns true for any field in Humanities. Moods grow in intensity; managed, if diligent. A core mood will influence other moods. Still, there’s a tragic mood. It sits neither left nor right.
