I am amused by the notion of touching love, not so much that its literally impossible to do so, but in that even I rational as I may think myself to be - want to touch love. Stay with me- I want to feel its grains between my fingers, to hear its whisper, to feel its caress against my skin. To lay with love quietly in the sun to feel its warmth and its coolness to make it stay to make it alive in my own world.
I want to identify love for myself, to keep it close to my heart, to gently hold it so as never to squeeze too tight or even to suffocate it. I want to see love in my dreams and in my realities. To command it to my light and send it to my dark corners. I want to feel the nature of love to know its perfection to introduce it to myself.
The early mornings on the road feel like love, the way the dew clings at my shoes the grass making way for me the tar gently accommodating me the air caressing every exposed part of me. The laughter of the birds chirping the beauty of the red sun coming up after the earth completes yet another successful spin around its axis.
I'm amused because somewhere deep inside me I know that love's nature is engraved in me. I know its texture its fineness its caress, its peace, its openness and f course, Love is in my hands because his hand touches mine.
