LETTERS AND WORDS AND THEIR ONE MULTIPLE MEANING

I thought if I could just write, then all the troubles in my life would all just disappear, temporarily, until I was in love again.

In this way, in my own mind, I could give my passion a stirring virtual peck-on-the-cheek and the glee-club-zealots of this world that couldn’t quite understand the complexities of my personal love life, and especially sometimes its absence, would know I loved them too.

The writing lines of the soft, squishy, light and breezy could be filled in passing with the hard, angular, sharp, and strongly defined; bringing back health to the ill-health of love gone right or wrong.

Literary avenues could be written chockablock with the kinds of pheromones that travellers of the arts could follow, sniffed and awash in the literary ether. Some love-characters would come staggered into story after being hammered like tent pegs, while others could drift around like Faery Island Ghosts, or Figs as I call them because without their leaves I feel so naked.

Polarization between anything would be considered good as long as it were consensual, in a place, too, where homogenization was always well tolerated. Everyone would be smooth and chaffed alike…

…And, Hold on… Oh look! Right across the street! Do you see? There! I’m in love again.