Between what is said and not meant, and what is meant and not said, most of love is lost.
~ Khalil Gibran
Truer words have never been spoken, and ones I tend to consider whenever I write or say careless things to my love during moments of insecurity. With a pen, conflict can be generated quite freely from these words especially when you wrap the sentence around two star-crossed lovers travelling along adjacent paths.
I can never really know what’s going to come out. I just start the conversations and I hope something beautiful or vile coalesces into my mind for: learning, catharsis, entertainment — an end. It’s a zone difficult to explore and easy to navigate. Diving in requires some control as it’s important not to be fooled by the illusions trying to guide you or to lose your footing on the clouds that pass over that cauldron of vipers waiting for those who fall.
We categorise and dwell and write and search and do all the things necessary in trying to understand this volatile space between people so ripe for the story pickings and so gleaming with lustre that sometimes we miss its poetic nature. Seemingly in between all things, like moments between the ticks of a clock, this space is a reality that always escapes in an exhaust of chaos but in an actuality is a space understood only in the rhythmic aesthetics of all language.
It’s a place that deserves plunder and it’s a place that dangles thunder. I think so maybe, anyway. Though, I maybe don’t think.