The ‘In Love’ Gremlin
A MEDIEVEAL KIND OF LOVE
“I'm in love. Shout it from the rooftops, call my mother, it’s happened!” I realise, looking out at the sun, its rays shining upon the smooth, electric blue car bonnet outside. I'm in love, deeply, profoundly exasperatingly, in EL OH VE EE.
Just…
With life. *Sorry, mum*
Love is like water; it finds the path of least resistance from source to mouth. Love changes state; it can be raging and stormy or as light as morning dew. Love can crash in like an iceberg or sneak in quietly like mist on a cloudy morning. Once you let love into your life, it will spill out.
There are countless forms of love—romantic, platonic, self-love, and love for life itself. It’s as perennial as the grass. Love liberates; as Maya Angelou said, “It doesn't bind; it liberates.” Like water, love knows no boundaries; it flows freely, slipping through the cracks, rebelliously carving pathways through our lives until it returns to its source.
If we follow the whispers, trickles and tickles of love, soon enough, we've dug a pathway, a trench and a love moat around our lives. After a life well lived, that moat will overflow into an oceanic swell full of creatures, currents, salty tears and fresh pools made from the only place that we can call home. And so, a life lived in love is surely a life well lived.
Love is the vibrational grade to which decisions are made. Each of us has a unique journey towards love. For some, it's found in career aspirations; for others, it’s found in relationships or passions. There's no right or wrong path, only the one that resonates with our soul. So, where does your path of least resistance lead? What anchors you to love? Where does love flow freely in your life, and where can it take you?
From the Factory
Update on ‘Soleil’
Musings
“The older I get, the surer I am that I'm not running the show.”
“A song is anything that can walk by itself.”
THOUGHTS: Poems are anecdotes and antidotes they are reveries and permission slips. They are bridges. To chase the invisible with words to catch feelings and pocket them into a net of caged sentences is cruel torture to the onlooker and forensic analysis to the scientist. I, a woman of curiosity, chase the flutter of a feeling and when the metaphor cloaks herself so gently upon her: that mystical fifth sense of the tongue, I bow down, pen to paper, the poem begins now.
Till next week,
K
