Thursday, February 02, 2012
I was in love before. When it was done with me, it sent me far beyond the borders of the present. It moved me across soft lands of antiquity and over deep watery graves. Through the skies of renaissance and over the horrors of revolution to where I circled above the grey layer with a swarm of bombers. The myriad gentlemen below, forever wet, and forever pondering.
All the time this happens, it seems, on triple 7's or RB211's. Over water and space. Over nothing of consequence and normally taking me someplace of little consequence. Taking me someplace just as empty as the last. Just as gutting as the previous. Someplace requiring my own vanity and imagination to keep from going mad.
Will this always be the wreckage of love? Am I the only fool? Will I continue to let these things sap rage and energy?
The truth? All I feel comfortable in now is being lost. Lost someplace with rocky shores or thorny desserts. Waters made clear by the stains of a barbaric history or beaches rocky and littered with jellyfish. With people that don't know me, but will hug me and feed me just the same. For it seems those hospitable strangers are far safer then those that declare love, honesty, and fidelity.