Worth

I ought to be writing. That's what I promised myself. I was going to come home and work on my novel, but instead I'm here writing to you - no one.

It's love, that's what this is all about, you know...everything. It's about love.

Alright, granted what I just wrote is pedantic. It's all about love. What a fucking cliche, right? But it's the question I ask myself everyday. What do you love? I try to pursue the things I love with single minded vigor.

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What a second, let me back up.

You see a long long time ago in a whole other part of the world I promised myself (I promised whatever is inside of myself that I identify as something outside of myself) that my life's dedication was writing. Writing was to be my love. At the time it made a whole lot of sense, after all THE WOMAN, that one woman who stole my shot at a fairy tale love with one fucking syllable - NO, had just spoken those too small letters to me. N - O. I'll never be as crushed as I was by my inability to express what I felt for her. Because I was certain, and I still am, if I had known how to express my heart to her she could never have refused me. So ever since that day I've been practicing, I've been learning, and most of all I've been exploring that place called a heart. I searched in journals. I poked around in stories. I made a thousand words a day my goal and I crushed it. I have written a lot, all in search of finding a way to express a glimmer of what she made me feel.

Sorry for the sour ending, but I haven't done it. I don't even think the words exist anymore. As far as I can tell love, sexual love, is some intangible thing that works on the same level as God, a place that developed so far before language it just doesn't translate.

Yet because of HER I have truly found writing. It's the only place I feel truly at home anymore. And maybe because of Jayme Corbin I'll never get a chance to fall in love the way my heart and head still thinks I'm supposed to, but if it wasn't for Jayme I also wouldn't be sitting here writing this.

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Love - everything important springs from it, and when my ass is in bed in the morning and the last thing I want to do is roll out from underneath the womb-like warmth, the utter sanctuary that are my covers, its chasing after the things I love that get me to step down onto the cold, cold floor. It makes me go to school. It makes me run. It makes me clean my house. It is the reason I bother even though I don't think I have any reason to bother. I do it all because I loved a woman named Jayme. And maybe, someday, if I figure out a way to do it all just right a woman like her (yes, I still dream about it actually being Jayme) will decide my love is worth her love.