Rising Tire

I figured love was like a rising tire. When it is low or flat you fill it, watch it filling, feel it filling. A dramatic time that lends itself to saturated delight. You relish the filling of the tire and after its full you maintain it; When its low you fill it again - you’re favorite part. This continues until you die. But love, you see, isn’t anything like this, at least I don’t think so these days. Maybe love is a problem that you always work towards solving. You’ll get close, even thinking you have the resolution for awhile. It’s like one of those huge math problems that grad students work on, except the warm feeling of love can’t contain absolute figures. Its mad of elusive, varying shapes, confounded feelings and wild animals. Love is a problem, no resolve. That doesn’t mean I’m asking you to stop trying. It requires that you always hope to solve and therefore always work to solve.

It’s the way you hated your brother or sister while growing up, buy you would have killed someone for hurting them. You had a thick love for them on your insides. That’s relationship. That’s interaction. Problems, mess, hate, stink, and saying stupid things.