This is about love. It just takes a while to get there.

A Poem by Alice Boswell

More stream of consciousness stuff. maybe I should edit some of it down.

Sometimes I feel like a wolf with its fur growing inwards. Seems peaceful on the outside, but inside, pacing, volatile, just daring someone to come close enough that I can snap at their hand. I read somewhere once, about a man who though he was a wolf. They killed him and skinned him, and that proved him wrong. My thoughts seem slowed down today, more sluggish, easier to capture. Then again, that's all and illusion.

We can't really know what we are thinking, we just think that we are thinking what we are thinking in an endless paradox, a loop created by the mystery of the human mind. Electronic impulses, like a computer. Full of information that doesn't exist. Turn it off and it disappears, no way to read the hardware and circuit boards from outside. Memories are the same, we don't remember events, just remember the memory of them, like those flash shadows left on walls, after the person is gone. Each time they are corroded a little more, and , oh church soon, do they understand what, I mean I never should of read, but, it has me conflicted again.

I suppose that's what it's all about, keep the wolf in, be good, be in control.

They don't really think about what it really is that they ask us to give up. It's all right for them, how human they are with their human condition. Lonely, not strong, in fact you are weak and your need for support and your ability to show that weakness to someone else isn't just okay, it is celebrated. All of us are so proud, so pleased for you (and humans are just animals) Why is it amiable, saintly, for me to seek a life of singleness, solitude, to 'Take my strength from the church and confide only in god.'? (A good use of brackets I think) My watch is loud, ticking away, and it's getting darker.

They don't think about what is is they are asking you to give up. The general church. Salute. Some of them know. That breaks my heart more.

It's not sex, alright, that is a part of it, but just think, never living with anyone other than a flatmate. Never sharing a bed. A picnic, a film. You would never hold hands, like that, never say 'I love you.' like that. Never cry like that. Never order a table for two or make breakfast in bed or fight, like that. Never have some one who needs just you, in their darkest moments, to cry and scream and hit out at you. You would never have someone to hold you when you feel like that either.

Culture takes the idea of romance and misunderstands it. We become conditioned to want it. 'Love is everywhere, at every turn in every medium, and they say 'Really, you're better off without it.' While you stand there with your wife and your child, who you have tried so long for, cried so much, fought so hard for. Stood together.

I want to stand, in that painting, the one of a man on top of a mountain, in the wind, and the snow. I want that. Imagine, never having your heart broken. It sounds good, but all you are left with is inferiority. Pain makes us. A child, being told, that it isn't good for you anyway and it would be more mature to refuse. A child, and a wolf, pacing.

Maybe they are right, but it's not how people work. How animals work.

We long for a rock to cling to as the sea buffets us back and forth, and all we can reach, grasp, is each other. It doesn't save us, both are still thrown about and submerged in the salt water, but isn't it still better? To try desperately to hold on for as long as you can, with all the strength your fingers can muster.

I should do something, should eat, letters to write emails, I still don't have the address. I ache, shouldn't have danced so hard. I should write something more appropriate for class, people. Some thing with cats, and what did I have for breakfast, it's warm today guess summer is coming, was that the kettle? Oh I've let my tea go cold again.