the lawn grows, just as my hair grows, and needs to be cut. or, at least, we shear, so as not to appear all too feral and uncouth.
for such is the sign of youth and naiveté, and yet, therein lies the conundrum. should i forfeit happiness for timeworn wisdom, even if something inside of me becomes stagnant as a result of the sacrifice? for even though i know each day my body ages a little more, the half of my mind attached to my heart stops and starts in spurts, palpitating erratically, if it is not piqued daily and pumped anew with the sweet dew of sanguine ardor.
and so, my soul, the very essence of me, feels fetid as it sits still amidst the thick breeze looming before the awakening of what may be another lonely summer.
i suppose the sultry afternoons of late Spring only abet this hot and sticky thing, this sentiment of squalor and languor. and albeit its moisture nurtures the green grass of home, internally it only seems to ferment despair.
hence, just as the heady evening air leads into another sleepless night, my spirit tosses with equal exasperation, anxious for the perennial return of the halcyon of love.
and thus, it is the absence thereof that weighs heavily, that unsettles and feeds readily this ethereal dilapidation.
so elusive Love, i beseech thee to spring me free of this molding stupor, animate me like the uplifting ions after the rain, drive me insane with the inspiration of amour, the kind of fervor and encouragement that only a keen woman knows how to spur.
yes, show me Her and i will surely show you—the true meaning of undaunted effort and devotion.
the art of love
l.m