Walking In Love

Often, when my mind has nothing better to do, it will return to the subject of love.

I say such things in jest, or passing, but it's been something I've wrestled with for years. It should be though. I'm one of those ridiculous people who think that to love is the purpose of life. That's not particularly romantic love, of course.

Romantic love is a hard one to start on. I'd really rather take an almost chauvenistic approach, and point out that Eve was created with the specific purpose of keeping Adam company. As a woman, I may try to find my own way in life, be in trying to change the world, or just trying to keep my head above the masses. I can try. But theres that nagging feeling that at any point I may decide what I really should do in life is devote myself wholly and entirely to one person, and be completely satisfied with it. And I don't know that that's wrong, either.

Since I am one of those friends most people would rather not have, and discuss abstract things like love, or forgiveness, or freedom with mine often, I've had a few other opinions. What it comes down to, is that my opinions of love, my expectations, I suppose, are unrealistic. They are sky high. Worse than that, they left the atmosphere light-years ago. I don't expect to recieve a perfect love, not from a fellow human, at any rate, but I cannot be contented with myself without giving it. It creates frustration, I'm constantly falling short. I'm disappointed.

I have to keep trying.

I have to keep grasping a rushing stream, instead of just getting my hand wet. It's impossible, I know. That can't stop me. It can't, and it shouldn't.

Because I am a wordy girl, who talks abstractly most of the time, a good deal of my poetry (which yes, as a wordy abstract girl, I do write) can be passed up without a thought. This is one of my better ones, I think, but it's still silly and demonstrates my [lack of] age. Forgive me? I'm still just learning to walk.

"Ants Across a Michealangleo"

I've thought that every candels moth

Was, perchance, better for his place.

Though ecstasy was short for death

He was inflamed consumed in grace.

Now candles all but styled out

At least, or aren't outside at all.

That is why the outer lights

Are rapt with moth to crash and crawl.

And I have heard the passionate

Who sing that love is like a fire,

If that is the truth of it

Perhaps our tale is moth-inspired.

For many soar to capture love

And only find a bulb to catch.

I'd like to think I'd leave the porch

Pursue a lighter, or a match.

Yet each these fires last but a time

Until they're blown, or dwindle out.

Should virtue likewise follow suit?

A tool for time to fool about?

No. Let me be unsatisfied.

If I'm a moth, a moth am I.

I will not linger through each loss

But chase the fires in the sky.

Though physics binds me ever far

What is love, but chasing stars?

[on a side note, the title of the poem was stolen from a poem of my sister's, so, while it is brilliant, I can take no credit. As Eliot said though, immature poets imitate, mature poets steal. Which would be relevant, if I were a mature poet.]