I just wrote something about love. I was indifferent to need, as it churns, by reason to have travels, concerns, aches, losses, a portrait inside. A soul is jaded, filled with hope, pleading inside, speaking to ghosts, asking for promise. I was without a notion, rethinking the situation, as to have experienced in like manner, disputing in self the waves of existence. I refuse to quote scripture. That agitates souls. So much has transpired. That seems irrelevant. I was a songbird at love—too immature to know love—too affected to absorb by essence: lakes, roses, wines, grapes, ancient picnic baskets, arcane quilts. To need a soul; this is in quintessence the art of love—such vulnerability, such want. To enter looking for guarantees: “How do I know you mean that.” We don’t. That hampers us. Open seas. Determined gods and goddesses. To have seen it—working against it—to have one incredible experience. Love drives a soul mad. And I was passing out freedoms, so released, a passing fancy—feuding with reality, disputing sentiments, refusing reality. Sort of aberrant, right? I won’t speak to it—it makes no sense—our society entertains the chosen few. It’s amazing how that works. I do thank you—those months digging into human soil, arranging thoughts, having intense feelings, and tasting unreality.
