Tolstoy once said "Everything I Understand, I Understand Because I Love". I think I can believe in that. I just don't think others do.
The many hands of society feel just as cold as anything else does.
Even if we were to reach across with our love for one another, I experience only the awareness of my arm, and look upon my small hands, and never feel the warmth I think I'm supposed to. That is the source of my pain. And nothing can absolve me of it.
I will go back to my question. I don't know if life as I know it is real. And if I were to give it a reason I would say it is because of time. From one moment to another we flow inexorably towards it's end and yet that is precisely the lack of awareness that people live their lives with that I disagree with.
Furthermore there is atemporality in our combined existence that manifests as love. We love our memories for the times they give us, and we love the future for the hope it enables. And most everyday we encounter people trying to love the everyday moments of their lives.
But all of our love is not shared. We keep it for ourselves. Afraid that by exposing it we diminish what it means.
That is my experience. For all our good intentions, it takes just a bit of self awareness to claw out the essence of what makes life worth it. Love.
And I am left with only one conclusion.
Is this experience real?
How am I to know? When this love that I espouse, escapes me so. I do listen to the world, and tell me if I am wrong, but this feeling of emptiness where love should be eats me every second of everyday, so that all my moments bleed together in a void of darkness that I have such black words for. And where I should relish in something, anything, memories or hope, I am alone.
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