06.May.2004

i was looking for inspiration.

--

and i think i found it in your heart

I arrived at nine-forty in the morning. By noon, I was showered and searching for work.

Between dusty states scattered ubiquitously throughout the Northeast and, finally, Midwest, I typed thoughts on the inside of my head involving my Ebullient Eastbound Exodus. Consider this a prologue of sorts.

--

To fall in love with someone is to relinquish a certain level of emotional control, that is, if you even beheld it initially. Beneath the currents of its inherent sweetness lies an issue of power, though gloriously sans struggle. To give your heart to someone is a risk few endeavor to take. Concession is universally misconstrued as weakness to the cynics. I have recently entered a new year of existence. My edges are softening.

I am not ashamed of the decisions I've made so far this year. All of them were conscious efforts even whilst encumbered by preternatural substances. There is always a part of me aware of everything I do, think, experience, taste, et al. I am acutely cognizant of my losses and my gains, my inadequacies and my insecurities, my wants and the pulsating fact I've severed the safety cord of my needs.

I used to write Leonard Cohen lyrics down my left forearm from "Hallelujah", specifically, "Love is not a victory march."

Here, now, sheltered amongst familiar emerald greens of this garden, I fully disagree with Cohen's sentiment. Through a level of uncertainty, I recognize there is a direction without formula, and I doubt I would desire it any other way.

Love is all-inclusive and all-encompassing; to label which type mars its energy and fingers insecurity. For the first time, I do not wish to repeat my patterns.

Dubious futurity reigns. I am not frightened. I know where I stand. Though reciprocation is questionable, it sways not my decision. One should give oneself to another sans the selfish compulsion to steal or manipulate parts from them. To give yourself without demand is the purest form of devotion. There always exists hope beneath the layers of everything.

In the succeeding days, I will give to you, darling voyeurs, the annals of my peregrination-spiced experiences with the Eastern United States, and how effortless it is for one to have all of their senses ignited by puerile laughter, Finnish wine, Miso soup, sandalwood soma, Brian Molko, fishnet shirts, Shakespeare in Wellesley, MA, and the prettiest pair of sardonic, Italian lips ever created.

--

time & machine