Wednesday

While I was looking elsewhere, the trees near the entrance to the building became covered in leaves.  They cast a green glow in the rising morning light as I pass by them.

In class last night, talked about "conflict" and the idea that we know we are going to lose in the end, we know we will die, but we choose to fight for things anyway.  We choose to pursue love anyway.  It's what makes us interesting.  It's what makes us brave.

Here's a poem for the day (I'm on a Neruda kick):

Sonnet XVII: I do not love you as if you were brine-rose, topaz

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

  

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

 

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda