Love. A paradox.

The following is a peice that I wrote a week ago, in some wierd kind of pensive mood after a period of something of a self-conflicting social something or another. If you don't get it, don't worry. I'm not sure I got all of it either. The emotion of reading it is half the experience. It will conclude my post for today.


Seeking love, knowing the Lover, and thereby having found the former, yet continuing the search with passion. It's one of the great paradoxes of life.

Who am I? Why am I that? What point is there in my being such?
I'm an expression. Of peace. Of hope, and, primarily, of the Love[r], the ultimate Artist.

What hope have I to turn the world? Whereupon do I step into the world of certain blur? Of living death. Where is death? Beacon, oh Light! please beam hells death into existence! But of course, this is hope against hope. Wish against Truth. No.

The bells toll. Run! RUN! At the door, finds nothing restful, all is moving, spinning round, and Love and Thunder fight. Fury rages, old maids wishing all was calm and still as Nativity. But were it such, the calamity would yeild no end.

Never a thought that rushed through my subconcience semi-reality hit me like it did that day. "Love beat Thunder when blood and water flowed." Oh Love! whatever lives within me, That great paradox proclaim! For such is always, never ending, overflowing world without end.