Fucking love. [28 Dec 2009|07:30pm] bloodsoakedash Love isn't about fucking. Who is he? He is anything and I am, He is everything I'm not, and together, I feel moved forward. There are beautiful things, in what we don't understand. I don't understand, but I needn't. Dear stupid electronic diary. If i make peace with the referencial, I think writing shant be so illusive as much as it is. When all colors blur to grey there are no colors to speak of, and when light refused to be called by it's mirrors, only light exists, and the objects are left muted simply by their lack of acknowledgement. Things were named. They were, and are. Things have been named, and that can be a peaceful thought if I let it. Independant of it, we are nought. Therefor, we are only... by definition, and in relation to. Into the eyes of the other, and off of our own hearts, it is not me, I am referencing, but you. The glory of love, is it's outside of itself nature. Our souls on a limb. The exit of the mind, disorienting the self for orientation. I wonder sometime, if I make sense. If I am recieved I am accomplished. Hold nothing back. 1 lover | leave me some

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