on thinking

"Nothing worth knowing can be entered through the mind." - Woody Allen

It is with delightfuly ironic happenstance that my writing abilities dissapate when I am feeling so much.  Perhaps because my creativity is cognitive, and I can not assign meaning to the things that I am feeling as of late.  It is painful to me that I have become so unprofound, but it is well worth the fruits of my nonlabor.  I am willing to lay down my sword for these sensations.  

And it's not to say that I couldn't create something now.  I could write a poem or a story or a snippet of something or another, but I cannot place into beautiful words what is happening.  My mind could create anything, but my soul just can't describe this thing.  I'm like an artist at his canvas who is attempting to paint a protrait of his lady love.  Scrawling paint across the whiteness, unable to capture the beauty of something truly beautiful.  He could create something alluring, but he is too flawed to create a facsimile of the magnificence which is before him. 

So often I have deconstructed every man that I've ever encountered, any man with a touch of romantic potential.  It's always been the way I screen for who I want to be with.  A mental checklist of desires, a red pen which highlights every flaw.  A running of the brain that did little more than compute a value.  I was afraid that my mind was the only thing that could feel.

I feel, maybe for the first time, that my soul is alive and on fire.  And I don't care if that's irrational, or if I ever become dissapointed.  All I know is that I can never go back to just thinking about love.