I say this from my soul, the bottom of my heart, truthfully and without prejudice–love is a funny thing. It’s not hilarious like a knee slapper, or chest bursting like an excellently written comedy skit..but it is funny, all the same.

I don’t laugh about it. Most of the time; however, I think I should chuckle…a little. So many people are hellbent on finding that spark, that one connection where you can snap fingers in Moscow and your soulmate can snap in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Hard pressed are most of them to uncover their searched for buried treasure: some never find a doubloon of it. Some do. And they are still, believe this, hellbent on the hunt; for them it never ceased.

I sit and I wonder and I wonder. What does it all come to? A heart shaped balloon fit to explode…a conscience the size of a grapefruit, a dry grapefruit, mind you…and a resilience that not a thrown dime can chip. Gleeful thoughts. Sad thoughts. Mood swings. A feeling of confidence–then doubt…The washing machine for the human soul, having a compartment for that too largely swelled heart.

Imagine a drawing, a drawing depicting such a description; and then, then, think of the artist commissioned to sketch it…vividly. No artist should come to mind. None of the human race can truly–though they try–express a feeling, all that are said to be real are imitations. See, just as an artist cannot paint that watercolor of heartbreak, nor can the musician compose the secretive, the personal, melody attuned to the blush inducing state of mind: a crush.

It is almost laughable, I say; and I do so because we spend our lives searching for the unknowable, those crown jewels everyone tells us to forget and leave where we found them. I laugh in delight, not mockery–if so I should be mocking myself; me, one of them fallen prey to this…but words hardly can express…it takes a greater writer to crack the block of ice. It is humanity I laugh at so proudly…that even when we fall off our tricycles we climb back on and spin the wheels again and again and again and again…until the rubber runs flat.

That is all that keeps us.

But, it is best to remember, much like a heart, a flat tire can be pumped.

Think daily,

A Southpaw