A Monkey on a Rock

I attempted to cheer up a friend on a blog post today, promised her she'd be happy sooner than she thinks. But is that really true? And what is happiness anyway? Who's to say I'm not happy here, churning out poem after poem on a lost love and intimacy while the outside world drones along? It's just the intimation of something that hovers over the lovers, sucking up our juices. The loved one gets fat, the lover withers, but sooner rather than later the veil comes off, and at least in being lost in love you've been on a journey.

Maybe it's an illusion of the ego to think a love (singular) is ever lost anyway. There is a feeling that the word is never the thing, and if you trace a line back to innocence and sharing, it always ends when the word and thought becomes the thing.

And maybe love is never the property of one person, maybe the thing we're mourning is our own objectivity, in which love and friendship could flourish. I know in the height of the greatest feelings I've felt I've always felt a foreboding, an awareness that the ego is ready to make it a subjective thing, and as soon as this happens, you're as alone as a monkey on a rock.

The sun is shining and thoughts are playing in happy contradiction.