the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
to love and write resolutely
drawing upon all the half-empty promises of many new year's past, alas i am here again dreaming of starting all over when the clock strikes twelve. what might i revive? bring alive, anew, when you and i see three become four? what high-flying chores will become bores and tedious tasks again, once the new year rolls in?
certainly, i will take on all the standard lofty wishes that we wee people are apt to make which would otherwise be taken care of if we were still in the wilderness—move a little faster and only with intention, sleep a lot longer, satisfy all hunger as soon as it swells, and consume only when our natures tell us it is necessary.
alas, i will likely believe myself more than a mere animal and attempt to futilely achieve something more…ahhhh (yawn), i'm bored already, how about you?—you…ah! now there's a worthy endeavor.
why, how clever of me, why didn't i readily think of you before? no wonder the tedium comes upon us so fast when we think of nothing more than ourselves. for haven't you been the one pastime, concentration, giant synapse of cranial-somatic sensation that has piqued, moved, and motivated me for much what i remember to be this past year?
surely, its true. and therefore and thus, and as certain as we rise from dirt and back to dust, i must—yes! i must, i must, i must! make you, but my sole panging and wrangling and wanting and yearning and churning resolution.
so, albeit, i promise to make no promises, i know i will do this—i will write to you, and every word that comes through will promise that as long as angels sing, each and every word will reveal and unfold and boldly spell and foretell one thing—i love you.
the art of living the art of love