A love not unflawed

(pic by Cato)

I have to be careful. I should be careful.

Many mornings I sit down to start writing and I have no idea what will emerge. It's a way of sorting through unresolved thoughts, feelings. Often I arrive at an unformed place, some unverbalized spot, not having yet realized it myself, that it must also be a part of how I feel and what I think. But there it is. The unknown becomes the unavoidable. It is not always pleasant, but it helps.

Some mornings I just delete all of it, a failed rehearsal. The useful practice of unshared expression. 

In this same way, it is sometimes best to write certain types of emails without populating the To: field. The "Send" button is too easily clicked, the consequences too severe. The chagrin of temporarily having felt this way, or that.

We are discouraged, by some, of having or expressing any feelings of anger or disappointment. We are told to acknowledge and then dismiss the sensations. As if the experiencing of such emotions corrupts the one that endures them, reveals a terrible inner weakness, a shameful fault of self. As if the sensation of anger is equal to the act of hostility.

It isn't, except maybe through sorcery. By an inverse of that same odd magic then desire would equal intercourse. It also does not, I attest.

Anger can be dangerous, though. It lurks towards the middle, trapped in the belly of a beast, without an easy way out.


That time heals all wounds is a joke. Time also creates them; carved like canyons into the cavity of the chest.

Prolonged emotional exasperation is much closer to exhaustion than it is to conflict.

The dry lines where a river once flowed, a bed of rocks awaiting spring, and rain.

That is already far more than I had wished to say.

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