I'm reading Elegy for Iris. Intimacy is such an awesome/aweful thing. That anyone should ever know your thoughts - even to the extent that they know what they do not (and will not) know is jarring. And wonderful.



I wonder sometimes about love. All that I've read on love (or at least my interpretation of it) has pointed to an ideal, platonic form of love qua love, not the sometimes dusty, somtimes messy love we live with day to day. The same stones polished by rivers sit in dirt or moulder on dusty shelves.



Ever get so wrapped up in metaphor yo forget the truth exists?