Jesus, well, this is late, isn’t it? Sorry, folks, was busy with stuff. Can you blame me?

Oh, boy, what are we writing about tonight? College? Work? Nah–I’m kind of getting tired of those things; instead, let’s talk about something that’s been on my mind for a while.


Fun topic, you could say, even an intelligent topic.

God, what do I say about love? That it can hurt? That it strikes you when you least expect it?

To say those things would be, I think, to state the obvious. Hell yes, it can hurt. Love can rip you apart twelve thousand times, and still be able to pack enough of a punch to send you groaning back to the beginning; however, that’s not to say it can’t also feel great, feel fulfilling.

I had an experience with love once, true as it could be, I suppose. It was that kind of love that brings you to an understanding of yourself, of what you want most out of life–it brought me peace and conflict and heartbreak, all in the same roll of the dice.

See, I didn’t love this girl at first; no, it progressed over time, like all things do. My first impression of her was–well, how do I explain it? uh, impressed and, at the same time, intimidated. Funny how those two can parallel one another, yet still be relevant to a whole.

Yeah, the love didn’t come into play until I got to know the girl, what kind of a person she was–how she inspired me to do better, to be better. By then, I was, as they say, head over feet, or did I screw that up?

She became a person I looked forward to seeing everyday, the someone we all strive to impress by being the best of ourselves, when, really, we probably look like a fool chicken flapping his feathers in the wind of his own turmoil.

I worked at it harder than I have most things in my life; and, in so doing, I do believe I grew into a better person. Out of all the mess, the craziness, I look back on now, there is at least that consolation: I changed, not into someone else entirely, but into myself.

As you can see, to say this love switched a couple things around in me is a bit of an understatement. It did bring me out of a self-contained shell, for a while; and it did open me up to new opportunities in socializing, and life in general. I’ve even gone so far as to talk about it, briefly, in a few posts.

‘Course, if you read those, it will be immediately obvious how deep I was within those waters; at times, I misjudged the deepness, fell short of the ledge on which to hoist myself out of the whirlpool, and I swirled, it seemed, endlessly.

The whirlpool didn’t come about until the latter stages, when I noticed the cracks in the walls I had spent months building, so I could sit back and revel in such a fascinating discovery: love? an event I had thought impossible for me? how could a girl feel the same for me?

The answer, then, was that she did not feel the same way.

I remember how angry I was, and how selfish I thought myself to be. This new world of emotions had opened wide its door, all of its contents spilling over me; what else was there to do but roll around in them and feel sick, right?


I told myself: whatever you think about yourself now is nothing compared to what you truly are. To deny yourself the truth of you, would be to deny all that you have accomplished, all that you have lost, all that you have done, in this life so far.

It helped, a little, but what struck out to me was…how my feelings never changed.

You’d think there’d be differences in mindset, but, I honestly believe that there are sometimes those certain people of whom, when you see them for the first time, or the thirtieth, your impression of them is never altered.

Maybe that’s poetic.

Maybe it’s bullshit.

Truth is, I can’t answer any of those questions. I don’t understand the tiniest piece of it.

So, can I claim to have loved someone if those feelings are yet buried?

The world is a confusing place, my friends.

Think daily,

A Southpaw


Love Is A Funny Thing

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