Where I does not exist, nor you.

It is nearing Valentines' Day. And while I dislike it because I have no love, I love it because of what it means, what it holds, what people around the world feel, what I will feel someday. For this, I have been reading poetry.

I love Pablo Neruda. O, amo a Pablo Neruda. I think his Sonnet XVII (Soneto XVII) is so beautiful. I like the Spanish, but the English is okay, too...well, just okay?


I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where
I love you directly, without complexities or pride,
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.



I don't have anyone to love. There's someone, but it's never going to work and so I've stopped trying to fool myself into thinking it works. But he is there, hidden in the inner workings of my heart long after everyone around me thinks I'm over him. He has faults, and things about him I dislike, but I think he's perfect. Too bad I lost any chance I ever had.

But this isn't the place for that longing and regret. I'll keep that tucked up inside until it dissolves away into a million little atoms. :]]

I don't know what I have done since my last post. I have been busy, I have been lazy, I have suffered through Zoe's flat tire (and my dad coming to fix it), I have spent hours in the library reading poetry--including Neruda, of course. In case you don't know, one of my favorite poems is "To an Athlete Dying Young" by A.E. Houseman, and I read some of that. I love the meaning; it's about death, but it's viewed positively, as an escape from ignominy and growing old and being forgotten. Everyone's worst fear is not dying; it is being forgotten. Because essentially, that is what death is; out of sight, out of mind, right? We are no longer there, and we are replaced, forgotten, reduced to a limestone marker in the middle of a veritable quarry of markers. But to die at the pinnacle of life--one is remembered for their vitality, their success, and not the short-lived records held by an aging runner.

I also love e.e. cummings, ever since the first time we read Anyone & Noone in Miss Pleiss's fourth grade English class. So deep, so brilliant, so avant-garde--yet still so conventional and great. I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart). Damn, do I love poetry.

Sylvia Plath. So brilliant and amazing. Gah. What did my hands do before they held you?

I'm going to take some poetry classes in college. I love it.