(no subject)
I do not love you as if you were the salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
Pablo Neruda-Sonnet 17
Things are getting interesting, I guess. I've been able to spend time with a lot of people right now that I normally wouldn't. Life has an intirely new perspective to it that is amazing and intriguing. Fear and wonder and comfort and certainity all are mixing together inside of me, and I don't know how to let it out-or if it should be let out. One day, I'll sit down and write out all the events of the past month, just to look at them-to see where I was and where I am, to see the emotions, the pain, the support and the love.
There's some points when I wonder what life would be like if all of this didn't happen. But at the same time, the person that I would be isn't the same person that I am. Life would have been different. Life may still be different. How different is it? Is it enough that I should regret not being able to live that life that I could have had? But why regret something that may have never been yours to start with.