springularity

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I’m no hermit, but I sympathize with the monkish way of life: highly away from chaotic city life below.

Love of solitude may have mystique, but it’s mostly cause for being forgotten—which is OK: Sought aloneness isn’t lonely.

Coincidently, when I went to bed last night, I realized again
(as I do sometimes) that I’m glad no one’s in bed with me.
I cherish the silence, reverie fading to sleep. So it goes when everyone you’ve loved is dead.

Daily, I cherish the hours at my desk, my keyboard, my tens of open-ended writing projects. As I “told” Jacques, I’m “never lonely, you know, just so singular, solitudinous by now.”

And I’m alone with “you,” whomever I keep near to mind.

Jacques would never know that being with him through “his” (translated) text is “alive to me” in a way which is largely about others who’ve been actually part of my life.

“You’re alive to me, and we are being with our times” pertains more to Kathryne, master of raillery—and you, master of persi-
flage, whom I wanted, I guess, to become a living version of her—in your own way, of course: That was the point, you must know: witnessing possible surprises of your flowering.

So, I avow to Jacques “…an intimate wandering which evinced
its way through openness to emergent appeals.” ““Loves known echo in loves discovered. New eras mirror unknown potential integral to the past. Yet, for love and eras, not as destiny disclosed; rather as open horizon calling for furtherance.”

So, it goes, Terese, Beth, with “lovers who unwittingly compose one’s [life],” not merely one’s youth.

Welcome, spring.

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