My neighbor asked me if I was writing at all. The answer was no. I take Decembers to let the limbs remain barren. Be nude and feel every speck that floats onto me or that I run into. This is an alone time of year.
But I once fell in love during a December. And under barren trees in Los Angeles is still the sun peering through with powerfully mustered strength from a Hail Mary distance. It's romantic this desert winter. So it once happened like this; where we were awoken by a muse in cold bedroom mornings but warmed as a rising recognition and impassioned cause rolling over into laying days on beds of earth.
I'm going to go to my friend's house today to talk about love. Or its absence. The romantic kind, that is. Truth be told, it informs the other kinds doesn't it. It drives the universal kind of love, the hungering one. Even its echoing habit and sentimental ritual has more force than an asexual guru in lotus. And I am on a thin drip of its echo.
I forgot how much it terrifies me. My behavior does a good job of leading that obtuse charge away from anything it resembles. Protect. Protect. The animal says. Intelligent animal.
Walking down my alley this morning an old dog sidewinding crooked gave me a knowing look in the eyes. You can't keep me inside forever. I'll always find a way out, it spoke friendly, even if it's only for a brief wild time before the leash arrives. The tethering is only temporary to what nature cleverly devised - a biological pleasure system to incentivize the repetition of bodily advancement toward building a God-like spirit lover for the sensual and individual Universe of all things. The Universe is waiting for its body to birth an eventual match to make conscious forever love to. Just like me, a dude in another December, grateful to have another day in construction.
