tmbt: not such a fine line
Is there really such a fine line between love and hate? Is that flood of energy for toe to tongue at the gentle caress really so far away from the flood of heat from stomach to limbs when the caress turns stab-of-eye. I don’t know. I don’t know anything at all, it seems. I don’t know the first fucking thing about how this is supposed to go or how I am supposed to be “myself”. I don’t have the foggiest idea where my heart goes in the moment I want to pluck out that beautiful crossed, would-be stabbing eye. And I don’t know where my red hot poker recedes to when the breathy I love you follows fast and hard on its heels, warm and close to my ear, again and again and again, sending me into an amnesic bliss, one that far outlasts, outshines and outruns the death spirals over coffee directions or clumsy corrections or mis-stepped questions or god help us everyone the tight cornering driving… I don’t know. I don’t want to. I don’t know love well enough, nor hate (thank the same everyones, and God), to say I’d understand it even if someone really smart explained it to me. Now, I’m happy to notice the fine line between, and walk it delicately as Lois and Bram’s elephants or the soldiering ant… forging ahead none-the-wiser, none-the-worse, none-the-wanting.
Because I have the love. I have it right here in my middle, Anna, right here in my fingers, right here, warm and close to my ear. And the fine line can fade into nothing for all I care. And I’ll let it cut me all it wants as it fades and returns, and keep loving the heat of it all, be it toe to tongue or stomach to limbs. It may be the difference I often seek to understand, but it is the similarly of aliveness that is the most beautiful thing.
Photo of The Great Wallendas via Britannica.com.