Stubbed a toe, hurt like a bitch.

There are so many forces of how we feel for each other. Between attraction and compassion and curiosity and good will; generally, but genuinely, liking one another; having memories and experiences and time in common, or merely mutually reflected thoughts that won't need attending to; responsibilities and commitments dedicated to one another (the following and followed through are equivalently heavy, if you will); as protective or sympathetic or empathized with; any number of these combinations to form countless shapes of what love might look like. That line dividing how we feel about someone else, and how it is they make us feel--i don't think it exists.

(Though it's still worth considering.)

There is this feeling of gratitude--of indebtedness that cannot be articulated, let alone undone--in which we dwell by virtue of existence alone. Life, this world we have for our experience as a thing that will not be spent by any one of us; it is our unification of sorts, or else the basest of all common ground. There is a sense of willingness without shame or lasting doubt. It is a matter of knowledge, decided upon. As in the person within the friend you chose to make; how you wanted to understand their eyes but not those of the faces before.

What's so wrong about belief for its own sake? Why should the value of the pursuit of an irrevocable truth outweigh that of the ideal of contentment, when life is this finite and neither are guaranteed?

(Our guarantee.)

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (2/12/07)