Love waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, for we own our prejudices and nothing more. I suppose love is, in itself, an act of valor, an act of communal defiance to overthrow that which oppresses us. If we died tomorrow, we will have loved another, straightly, simply.

Sometimes, it’s not as simple as I make it out to be. What I think of as love could be something else entirely.

Sometimes, the complexities of the deceptively mundane confound, and leave no choice. I’m stricken to move, as I think movement implies progress. Meaningless motion equates to nothingness.

Is my conceptualization of said love not love at all? It could be another thing oft mistaken for this precious commodity. It could be its disreputable sister, lust.

Lust waits not for those of us with lesser to spare, as the more we have, the greater our need for misinterpreted desire. It is erroneously consumed whole, leaving an aftermath of failure.

Life is little, but more. There is life before and after both sisters. Life remains, regardless.

Earth-bound riddles betray me this night.


I feel fraudulent in my sometimes misguided crusade, despite the better part of me ultimately concluding that what I am doing is right. Settled between miscellaneous implications and the simplification of right vs. wrong, I find myself at odds. I suppose that in this suspended moment, there is no action for the greater good that supersedes the very notion of what is right versus what is wrong. Many human things are simply wrong, and sometimes require editing, or rewriting. Now is one such a moment. The wells of rage that overflow on the streets bruise me in familiar spots, as I know this fight. I think of my micro world and the obligation I have to myself, first and foremost. I am no martyr, nor am I a savior. I am who I’ve always been.

This pact of respect with myself swings both ways, and I have this obligation to fulfill the mere existence of human willpower, and perhaps consumption of the philosophical variety. Someday, I may sum up the courage to come to terms with my inner workings. I’ll come to the table of my demons in resolution and not nihilism.

Tonight, I know nothing.


It matters less at the end of every night, this feigned deliberation of purpose, of an attempt at multitudes, of a forced lightness of being. The melodrama of yesterday dissipates in the romantic chill of those memorable evenings, and everything therein. The hour hand ticks forward without approval, and it all goes and goes and goes. Space is shrinking, the physical and emotional air becoming consumptive. A desperate sense of helplessness floats in the room, gnawing at heartstrings, beckoning for forgiveness while half-truths continue trickling in. Mind over matter, to be tortured in short order. Sense and sanity hold less meaning as the days go by. Dance in and around, away and back again. At what point do I succumb, and at what point do I settle into myself?


Specks of sadness dance in her dark eyes as she tells me of her life on the road, always moving, always unstable. Her next deployment is across the sea and over the mountains, thousands of miles away from here, from home. He wanted to be with her, she said, but then she received news of the assignment and so he stopped asking to be with her once the reality set in. She has one more year of service before she is free to be herself again, to reclaim her freedom. She said she would dye her hair green when she returned home.

This weekend I will try the new coffee roastery by my place and go for a walk afterwards, under the cool and brightening Los Angeles sky. She will head back to base and make preparations to set off for one year. She will leave everything behind and venture into unknown territory, to the other side. The point is that she will be so far from home, from her family. It will be one year before I see my friend again. It matters not what side I stand on, because I love her more than all the politik combined. I admire and appreciate her courage, and I am reminded of the value of my freedom. Freedom to choose, freedom to be. Let me never forget. I will miss her dearly.


Give me your origin of reverie,
your unwavering spirit of belief,
your monsters of old treachery,
the sand you hide beneath the blighted sun,
I have searched long for your ways,
lost as I am time and again,
in this layered state of chaotic order.