what does one love?
the sun standing proud in the middle, old gasball, and heroic, little earth spinning with a sidekick moon at her side
the lights in the alleys of cities gone wild with graffiti on the sidewalk and the trash bins
and when I went to Walden Pond and felt the force of nature and the sky
the simmering, dimmening life and the peace –
there were these swans and the swans were flying and the foxes jumped and the swans were dying
and I was holding his hand and singing a song and I didn’t even think of crying.
What does one love that one actually loves because loving means feeling the pain – and why does one love if the meaning’s elusive, the ending apparently grim?