Love is a strange thing. It produces in me a passion to live, claws at my skin, my heart. No one else can know the individual passion it has put into me. It desires to not be a bother to the other, yet it subliminally demands the other's time, attention, affection, life, efforts poured out.
pause for a moment think on the wonders of this love, how it has shed tears, upset a normal life plan and brought unrelenting ceaseless questioning and explaining, as if this vivid life story inside me was a cave far distant that only few, only the lucky, only those of understanding and thirst, could find.
how it worships, this hunger. I wonder at this, my desire to worship another Being. How can this One know all that is inside of me when others find me so hard to grasp?
I am like a reed, tossed back and forth by once anger, then obligation. I want to be one who inspires singing and light from the Source of all blessing, and I myself am a song, longing for reward continually, not able to live without praise. how is it that we keep sacred and secular together, in one box, as one train of thought, as one radiantly admires song that is outwardly holy + perfect, and secretly perfect? that its perfection only survives on imperfection, struggle? that what seems to fit only is thriving on what is unholy, unbalanced, unsuccinct.
Not just lost into oblivion.