A two year gap in writing leaves me with no ideas of what to write about except love. Our greatest friend and enemy. The thing that saves us, but without which we wouldn't need saving. It pushes and pulls. Drowns and resuscitates. Cuts down and waters. Makes us forget and makes us remember. The light to open eyes, the dark to closed eyes and hot tears. It is everything. It is all around us. It moves us and stops us. It is poison, it is wine. It is life, and it is death. Love can be the death of us, and it can be the life of us. It will be.
Everything that I hate about love, has reminded me of what I hate about love. Two years of the same story: the protagonist that you can't do with, and can't do without. A bitter taste to the lips, a sweet taste on the tongue. Insane agony, insane ecstasy, insane circle. You can choose a different sort of insanity- you can crawl under the round barb-wired fence and find a corner, a dark corner that has no repetition, no smooth lines that take you round, just the safe lonely walls of a corner against your back. Exchange windows for mirrors. Remind yourself that you are sane, because you chose a different insanity.
If you can let yourself be tender, love will reach you through the fury. It will quiet you, and beg you to listen, to break down the fury into distinguishable sounds, a thousand cries-- all for love-- can you hear it? They are all crying for the same thing. They are all hurting each other, for the same thing. Love will beg you to listen to each one, to try to understand, to remember that yours is just one of these.
If you can let yourself be free, love can be an infinite mess of death and life. If you can believe that it is infinite, you can let yourself be free.
This is what I am learning, and what I am hoping for. To be open to infinite hurt, and to infinite joy. To be free. To be infinite.
