The years of tears left scars, left her praying to the stars, a heart ajar with God, a beautiful reservoir...of sullied love and a sweet resurrection...
These days thoughts come to me as fragments and incomplete sentences. Nothing full enough to bloom. Only fragments and incomplete sentences, fractured at the very moment of their birth.
Experience the mind of a writer. Some days my thoughts are whimsical and want to speak of full moons fancy with blue and blood, a scientific phenomenon or mesmerizing aphrodisiac to mere mortals setting into a perfect sunset, loving after the sun falls into an abyss.
And other times, the thoughts are philosophical, imploring the hungry heart to cleave to the love already apprehended for us. Already mourned over. Already resurrected. And I find themes in certain words that like to keep coming back to me for use here and there.
But most of all my incomplete companions emerge to speak of love unknown. I carry words that yearn to learn the substance of love. It is my favorite subject. The kind of love which holds us at gunpoint, pleading to please the gunman. The kind that keeps us as a prisoner of hope in the clutch of love's calling. The sacred love that lays beside us to uncover our nakedness and consecrate us...Love is my muse. Love is my motivation, my inclination, like sunflowers incline toward sky's radiant blue.
The month is February, the month of love for most. Let us celebrate love. The enigma of it together with the fullness of it. Let us celebrate all the ways it comes to us, all the ways it heals us, the ways it covers us, breaks us, mends us and molds us. Let us celebrate the ones who come to give it to us, the ones who withhold it and the ones who come to revive it in us. Let us honor love as who we are and what we came here to do. Let us be love. Let us create love. Let us command love to abide in our hands and hearts. Let us love.
erm...It is Well