Nein, Danke

It's easy to talk about love if you're never had it bounce across your life - much less so if it has passed by you at the speed of a casually walking Barry Allen. Yes, I'm aware there are a lot of references to pop culture you may or may not agree with - not really something to worry about. The point is going to be made one way or the other. 

This is not about love - just a fleeting thought of it. It's about when I see the picture of a certain someone I thought I fancied back when I had no idea the word 'fancy' existed, much less that it had any relation to having the hots for someone. Same for that last phrase. 

It's hilarious because I'm laughing right now as I gather my memories of things that have never happened with this person, and things that never will - they may mean the same thing essentially given that time is an illusion, but then we all have our vices. Mine is making sure I spell check while I write - another additional reason why I don't write very often, not like this anyway. The red lining underneath my false word is primae time of irritating. Who would think the god of everything would be irked by something so little. I kid, of course. 

There's a fair few things that irk, but every now and then reality hits in about stuff I don't actually have under control as much as I want them to be. No, I'm not a control freak and this isn't a dear diary moment. It's just an excuse for my mind to flex its creative muscles beyond that of a paycheque. [Long Pause] Hold on, need to erase some red lines. 

Now, back to mademoiselle. I came so close to typing that correctly the first time, sigh. The amount of times I have considered the concept of love as a baseless idea that last a couple of cycles equivalent to that of having met around 33 times is much more than 33.Yes, I write like this and it can be confusing. That's the idea. Use your mind, flex your unused brain muscles. Or not, really - totally your call. 

No, love provides me joy in the moment of imagination, in the minute of the one song I relate it to, and in the hour that I used to spend at the pitch just before the rain before that was a privilege I could no longer exercise. But that's it - there's been nothing more to it and there will be nothing more to it. It's a fleeting thought on the runway that my mind calls home, and my little friend in and around where she is remains yet another car speeding along. A vintage beauty, I may add. She does hail from a time when my years weren't as numbered as they are today. 

I left a space at the start of this piece - an error I've been making as much as allowing people to waste my time with the dumbest thoughts regarding a concept I understand so little - and yet so much more than them. Arrogant, sure. But as my good friend from across the Atlantic has repeatedly said and promised to paraphrase on a grave if I ever have one - "You're annoyingly right about too many things".

And therein lies my credence about this ephemeral, transient and fugacious postulation of l'amour. Yes, I opened a thesaurus. It will come, and it will go and it will have no more meaning than what it already does. Love, not the thesaurus - although I agree it applies there too. 

Sorry, took a short break to forewarn aforementioned friend about the mention - her being a bigshot celeb makes it tough for me sometimes, but she is very kind. She also actually agrees with my ideas of fleeting moments of affection for people you know are essentially just there to fill the gaps left by design - and yet when you realise that you want them gone for they are possibly taking up space which would actually belong to someone who brings meaning and reason as to with their presence. 

That last line may suffer from grammatical issues but on SW we don't have grammar or the English language so you'll have to pardon my ignorance. There's only so much an Energy being from outer space born before the Big Bang can do. And because energy cannot die but only transform, my thoughts will continue to flood the web and come around your screens today or in around 12 cycles of forlorn abstractions of time that you believe in. 

Tschüs.