It seems that now I have to write down nearly every thought I have, like each one that slips by flirts with my fingertips, falling into verse, into stanza, into words—oh, wonderful words! Hamlet was so wrong when he dismissed those "words, words, words." I feel that I can fall in love with syllables without even trying. The vernacular, the rhymed, the beaten, the misused orphaned, the sesquipedalian—I think I could love it all.
"Love." Now, that a word on the tip of my tongue. It's origami-ed, folded into a perfect paper heart, leaning and longing to be unfurled. Love. "Love loves to love love," James Joyce once wrote. (In Ulyrsses, I believe.) And I, lover of words, love those words, because I, the cataclysmically romantic I am, love to love love, or perhaps just the idea of it.
I'm not sure if I truly know where or what true love is or will be—love is a stranger whose face I would not be able to recognize in a crowd, let alone two inches before my lips. Love is a friend I have not met yet. I don't know why, but some days, I mourn it.
I repent for its loss, as if I am truly hopeless for the romantics of life. The romantics of life—I admire them, with all of my heart. I pity them, in many ways, but I cannot help but smile at their wide eyes.
Once, a forever (that is not too far away) ago, I too was wide-eyed with open hands. I wanted the world, or maybe to taste it, feel it, see it, love it. I wanted to love it, love it all.
I wish I could be that person again. But today, when tragedy is a commodity, I feel that optimism is just too much of an inconvenience. "So it goes."
xxxxxxx
"Love." Now, that a word on the tip of my tongue. It's origami-ed, folded into a perfect paper heart, leaning and longing to be unfurled. Love. "Love loves to love love," James Joyce once wrote. (In Ulyrsses, I believe.) And I, lover of words, love those words, because I, the cataclysmically romantic I am, love to love love, or perhaps just the idea of it.
I'm not sure if I truly know where or what true love is or will be—love is a stranger whose face I would not be able to recognize in a crowd, let alone two inches before my lips. Love is a friend I have not met yet. I don't know why, but some days, I mourn it.
I repent for its loss, as if I am truly hopeless for the romantics of life. The romantics of life—I admire them, with all of my heart. I pity them, in many ways, but I cannot help but smile at their wide eyes.
Once, a forever (that is not too far away) ago, I too was wide-eyed with open hands. I wanted the world, or maybe to taste it, feel it, see it, love it. I wanted to love it, love it all.
I wish I could be that person again. But today, when tragedy is a commodity, I feel that optimism is just too much of an inconvenience. "So it goes."
xxxxxxx
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