My previous post had to do with Love. Reflecting over many of my posts I've arrived at the realization that many of them do deal with this theme. It is the theme of Literature and of Life and of everything that makes our worlds revolve. Yet it is a theme of which we write with as much wit as can be mustered and expound upon with all our potential eloquence and still fail. Still we fail to grasp it. Could it be then, as Duke de la Rochefoucauld, wrote "It is with True Love, as with Ghosts and Apparitions, a Thing that every body talk of, and scarce any body hath seen."?
I still recall hearing elderly couples tell of how much they've changed through the years. How much they've grown together in learning of Love. So for me to write of Love now, at my age (a mere 23), seems rather ridiculous. Still I have, I believe, nothing better to write of and so I will continue trying to solve the riddles. My ignorance of Love is, right now, bliss. Because although I do not know it or understand it altogether right now, what I do know and understand (as little as it is) is so utterly wonderful (or blissful) that my appetite for the ripening of Love unto old age (and the wisdom which generally accompanies such an age) is quite anxious for it is certain to discover even more bliss.
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