My dissertation died.

In it, I diplayed the statistics of the exact size, shape and weight of the hole where my heart used to be and the precise flavour of the wind that whistles coldly through it. In the simplest, most straightforward terms:

I am lonely, and I don't like it.

I want to be in love again.

This is the bright blue glowing goddess on the horizon with a party-mask on; the lack of a thing loved and loving to the woman girl, that she could keep, that she wouldn't throw away. She cannot live on Whoredom; that is not the meat that can sustain her. She is done with that, like it or not.

And I do not, but what can I do?

The bolt of thunder happened once, bringing with it love that could triumph over damnation and the grave, love that brought rain to deserts, love such as there has never been in a play, love that could conquer anything save Indifference. Which, you see, had been its timely end, in the appropriate space of time.

I miss it, how I miss it. I can't confuse it with missing the girl I loved, for she is a stranger with a killingly friendly face and taste in books. I know only that once, I loved someone who once used that face, I loved her thunderbolt, I loved her wreck-on-the-reef.

And now there is the will to love, and no place for it, for it will not be satisfied with a snack. There is love carried upon my shoulders like the ten of wands, selfish burden. To quote, I am free to love, but can niether love nor write it; what waits, the axe stroke holds back-- I will not again labour in the camps of the unrequited. I want the direction in which to aim this damn dart and I want to never be done with it. I've got my blanket muse, my terrible talent, and an empty place that is warm and waiting,

All I need now is the girl.

<<agé chose>>

0 comments.notation.profile.DW.Quois.Lochinvar.smut.Tambourin.DiaryLand.DeadNazi