About love

In the beginning,

I mean in the very beginning

I didn’t want anyone to love me.

I wanted someone

to reflect my self-love

as it incidentally

and vicariously nurtures them.

It’s their work in receiving it

as they take further permission

from it

to be their self love to them self

and likewise

incidentally shared with me.

I didn’t want their love for me

to be so impressive to me

that I was distracted by it

or that I was impressed by it

so much so

that I was consumed with it

as a substitute for my loving me

first right and foremost.

I wanted this love to be

the medium of this exchange

in our environment of being.

I somehow expected

that when it was like that

we would all know

of it instinctually

and respond accordingly

with outpours

of what we keep inside

that we don’t see permission

for it to be all around

and sharable.

I am not saying

I knew any of this then.

It was just so

and precipitously real.

I did not even want

a concept for it.

That all came much later

in childhood.

It was a slippery concept

to put into words

because it was

so much first a feeling

and fully a consuming feeling

way before understanding itself

and subsequently

before the concept

of love came to be.

I recognized it first off

around me

with no clues necessary

but just found myself

basking in it

although unpronounced

as such.

I sensed it

and wanted to give back.

Much like a melody sung to me

that I somehow soulfully knew

and could not help myself

but also sing along

and mutually sing back.

Of course I did not know

what it meant

but that it felt full and whole

and intimately rewarding

to be part of the swim of it.

Not everyone back then played.

Most were somehow preoccupied

to bother.

By now, very much later

it feels very complicated

in that way.

Like love as it appears now in life

is ordered

from a menu appropriately

through gestures and language

and behaviors.

It is shared and reflected

as if love is statements

of agreement

and then we occupy agreement

as flashes of love

for cogent delight.

None of which

touches my sense

of the connection emphatically.

Love as later in life

is now composed of experiences

and in a comparative sense,

it is not a flow

but an engagement

and a gauging of it and for it.

A sort of

let’s be comfortably going

unconscious together

in the pursuit of recovery

from previous disappointments

in this direction.

I don’t know of it that way

in all honesty.

My love has no story to be told.

There is no telling

as escort to love.

It is and is timelessly on

even though

life presents the view

of embers or flames,

the heat and source

even though my experience

and personal means

of self as escort

migrate over time.

I didn’t come here to get it

or be in the search of it.

I came here to give it

and get on with it ongoing.

I came here to be of it

as we all are

and pouring it onward

and out ward

like a wellspring

from a common

underground source

from deep within each one of us.

I am either on the wrong planet

or here at the wrong time

or completely missed

the original sense of my intent

and am disabled in that way.

I feel at times

like I am either autistic

or suffer from a rare form

of some syndrome

or brain affect

that misplaces me

but does not provide

an alternative

to muse or use.

I am baffled enough

to consider it

all a form of espionage

or a counter cultural revolution,

or as some futuristic enterprise

that I am committed to

and will die in doing so

unrealized in my calling.

My soul is gagged,

some how not to speak.

Every love opportunity

is thickly encumbered

and thought-form

paperwork bound

within a flurry of abiding rules

that either stifle me

or timing me away.

I winch

into a unspeaking sorrow

that is incomplete unto itself.

I can’t declare much

that gives me

a sense of direction about it.

In a quantum way,

it is inside of every moment

and present right here

within what appears as us

but somehow inaccessible

to immerse and bask.

I can’t call it pain or painful.

I can’t say it is sorrow either.

For me it is a kind

of an existential absence,

an under-dimensionalized

presence that leads me

to this response in this dismay.

I have moisture

but am not liquid.

I am drops

but not to ocean.

I am precipitous

but without evaporative means.

I am a wet-nurse

but without succulence

to complete.

My hurt is incomplete void

and consuming absentia

aching for wholeness.

All of these words

are but an isolated account

writing across

desolate beach sand

where by either wind,

much like breath

or wave,

much like the water content

of other humans,

will surely embrace

what I write in passing

and intentionally

be on their way.