I wish I knew love like I know the concept. I wish love had touched me the way my pen had touched it. I wish it could stand before the world and describe my importance. It could explain how I am closer than I appear. It could martyr itself before me as I stand there like the disquished gent in a Jane Austen novel. Instead, I sit here more like Jane.
These are not proper thoughts for a man. Not in her time nor in mine. These are the mindlings of children. Love is not a character in a story. It is a reason for the page. It is the inevitable result of the ink on the page. It's much like a storm. It has its beauty. It has its destruction. It never tires.
Unlike myself. I have tired a thousand times over and still I sit a this desk, searching.
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