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THIS IS MY LOT, BEAUTIFUL STRANGERS.
 When your fingers pace left and right above the keyboard, you know you want to say something but you don't quite know how or you don't quite know what. Today I want to talk about love but it's like giving a ridiculous epilogue to a book so condensed, so rich in unfathomable prose. It's selfish isn't it. This thing we call love. When you want someone to be with you because he/she gives you that overrated warm fuzzy feeling. When you want to be surprised by the person you love. When you want to feel appreciated. When you call and expect him/her to be around when you need him/her. When you like the embrace because it makes you feel like nothing else matters. Self-love maybe, self-love.
Yes, love is patient, kind, and all that jazz. But maybe love is about wanting to protect someone. Even if it means watching yourself fall to pieces, even if it means you never make it back. Should I? Because working for a living sounds so enticingly alien, because having common blood around beats anything now, because starting anew isn't like a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich- it goes beyond the trivialities and because I don't want to be selfish anymore. questions about questions about thoughts on thoughts. your extended joke on a very broken metaphor. When the greatest thing to learn in life is the greatest fall of a Man, you pick up a broken record and put it on replay. There was no ellipsis in my letter when I didn't say I love you. TonFlyingHigh!2:51 PM *** |
Behind The Wheel; 
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