The poets tell us that once you name something, you no longer truly possess it. As if the sun, soil, ego, even death, are things worthy enough to hold.
There is nothing coiled around our consciousness, nothing hard-wired within our brain, that can spare a moment’s relief from our own desperation and psychosis.
Yet love, unnamed and undeserved, is relentless in pursuit and unforgiving in its timing.
It unsettles everything.
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