Can This Be Love

Can this be love which causes my fingers to twitch? Is it that quivery, nerve-tingling emotion that narrows my eyes, wrinkles my brow in concentration, or causes my eyes to lose outer focus in order to see only the movie playing within?

Just because words fascinate me, and the thought of constructing the perfect sentence drives me onward, doesn’t mean that I’ve fallen in love, does it?

If so, I’m horribly lost in this entanglement of feelings with no hope of escape. I have so few moments in my word-cluttered day in which pure thought of something other takes hold long enough to distract me from this suffocating passion.

Poems flit about my head as so many hummingbirds, stabbing toward possible feeding stations with pointed beaks, hovering over gardens of flowery prose in search of the quintessential expression of such vibrant blossoms of thought. Chittering communications between these winged messengers of joy fill my hearing with tantalizing snippets for the taking, if only I could understand the language.

I no longer need outer images to fuel my flights of fancy any more than my hummingbirds need solid fuel to power their wings. I’ve passed that stage of this thing called a “Love of Words,” a “Passion for Prose,” or a “Love Affair with Ideas.”

Yes, I admit it! I have fallen madly, deeply, irrevocably in love with language and its expressions across the face of literature and the world. I admit it! I cannot live without it nestled in my heart. And never will I allow anyone to pry it from my mind or fingers. Without it, I cannot see the world, nor would I want to.

Thank you for listening. I feel better now for having gotten that out. I know there are others who feel similarly. Please, take the time to express your own feelings on the subject. Tell the world how you feel about this philandering lover who keeps you waiting at the altar of creation, then begs to be taken back into your arms for another dance around the floor.

Until later,

Claudsy