It’s amazing how fucking can be so important to me, while at the same time being lesser than this idea of love. But what is more real, a physical act between two people, or some lofty, vague idea that probably exists nowhere but in my own head… at least in the form by which I presently grasp it.
Perhaps it is because I have been there; I have been wrapped in this vague idea as a butterfly was once wrapped in a cocoon. But now I approach the idea of love, the idea of this transformative cocoon, not as the caterpillar, the loveless and open being that once facilitated it, but as the butterfly that knows it…
And that may be my problem. I have known it. I have expectations.
I once was blind to it, and only then was I able to find it so.
I’m still alive.
These are thoughts.