Acts of God

What is this word, "love?" This three letter poem we long for most. For me, love has always been the expression of colour, the decore to my mansion. I gaily fill its rooms with brightness, and the sweet scent of vanilla, and books. Fireplaces. Cosy corners that become a sanction when the weather turns, and the rain beats its force against the pane of the window. It is a safety, a warmth, a knowledge that there's a place to go when the outside world shies away, and the inside welcomes you in with open arms and a promise to not pass judgement.

Perhaps this is just a vision I had in a dream once, a long time ago, before I realised that the more I put in my house, the more there is to blow away when the wooden frames crack the windows, and the crisp wind of change comes to bite my face, extinguish my fire and leave me too cold. "Love" - the act of slamming doors, of judging nothing, of judging everything in the hope that you won't be judged. Isn't that what I'm meant to do? "For God so loved the world that he gave us his only son." Why have I never read this before, this act, "love?" Why have I never understood that so loving is nothing more than to loose a part of yourself, martyrdom, and a sharp nail through the bones of gentle hands? Love was always meant to hurt.

So here I stand, once more in the storms of reality, another door blown closed to lock me out. I think I'll pitch my tent and zip it shut, wrap myself in my sleeping bag and become a silouette to the light of my own torch. Its warm enough, it's quiet, and best of all, it has no windows, no doors, no cheap salesman selling insurance against acts of God. If love is nothing more than a slap in the face and a nail through my heart, I'm nothing more than a nomad, and nothing less than dust.