And Things


Love, and things that look like love;
Things that could pass for love if seen from a distance;
The feelings that one would call love on a warm day, but mere obsession in the winter;
Love, and other, almost indistinguishable sensations, the flutter of a heart that does not know its way.
Love, love that might have been or might yet be; things that one man would call love but another might be dubious about.
Love and things that masquerade as love.
And things that might be love in another life,
and things,
and things,
and things.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

One Million Words Day

On January the 3rd, 2010, spurred on by an unfinished NaNoWriMo novel, I decided that I would write a fixed amount every day - 500 words, which seemed to me like reasonable progress to make. I kept it up until April, when I finished the novel. Then I kept going - just writing little scenes, something every day to keep my fingers limber and my brain generating ideas. I did it every day - one holidays, when I was ill, on Christmas day, and so on. Sometimes it was easy, sometimes it was hard, but I kept at it. When January 3, 2011 came around, I felt comfortable continuing - I increased the writing load to 750 words a day. It was difficult to start with - 250 words extra doesn't seem a lot, but stitched onto the back of another 500 suddenly it seems like a surprise extra mile tacked onto the end of a marathon. Again, though, I got to the end of the year without missing a day. On Jan 3 2012, I started writing 1,000 words a day, and then a year later, this January, I began 1,250 word...
Read more

Art Pact 143

We rolled up the lane to Fox's house and a hushed silence fell over the passengers in the car. As Owl had said, the house had two driveways - one at forty-five degrees to the other. Each ended in a huge gilded gate, and Hedgehog pulled the car over to the side of the road. As the car stopped he began to rock wildly from side-to-side, squeaking uncomfortably. We watched him for a minute, until Owl (sitting beside him in the passenger seat) enquired politely if there might be some problem. "I'm stuck!" Hedgehog complained. "Stuck?" "To the seat!" he explained. "The drive was so long, every time I pressed on the brake pedal it pushed my quills further into the fabric." "What!" wailed Otter, in sudden distress. "Not my seat covers! What have you done?" "If he's done anything," said Owl sternly, "it's your fault. You didn't have to get banned from driving, you didn't have to sign us...
Read more

Art Pact 111

If it was up to me I wouldn't talk about it at all, but I suppose I have to admit that I have a pretty good home life. It's just something you don't like to talk about - perhaps even think about, because there's always the chance that I might jinx it. What I'm trying to say is, don't tell Dad or Phyllis that I said anything. My dad isn't around much - not physically, I mean, but his presence is everywhere. Our house is the biggest in the road, and it's mainly due to his constant obsession with adding rooms. Once (before I was born) it was a three-bed semi. Then he built an extension to the kitchen, then above that an extension to the bathroom, then Carrie was born, then the extension was rolled into the rest of the house so that there were two new rooms above the garage, then I was born, then a utility room came out of the other side of the kitchen, then Bridget was born and mum died, then there was the porch, then the conservatory, then the living ro...
Read more