Love.

Tomorrow night, for me, is a night that millions of Americans honestly spend years of their lives dreaming about. Especially American girls, who want lights and pretty things to dazzle them. We want to be dazzled, and we disappoint ourselves or throw away our lives for cheap thrills and false imitations of passion. Yeah, Prom, a tradition that spans who-knows how many generations, going back to Pagan spring festivals and the like. Leaves are budding, flowers and blossoming, and the urge to be needed and to need and to create becomes unbearably irresistible. Prom is the watering down of traditions older than humanity itself. It's the twenty-first century American's answer to the depth of lust and love: a glimmering dance floor and petty conversation simmering on the side lines.

I think, between fourteen and eighteen, the first acknowledgment of love is truly made. Maybe for a few years the opposite sex has been looking pretty attractive, but it's not until this point that attraction and friendship merge into something altogether foreign. The thought of one's future being the person next to you more than the events laid out before your feet consumes so many of us modern teenagers that few of us take the time to step back and differentiate between love and hope, devotion and lust. But, through trial and error, the lesson is eventually learned. Love is acknowledged, truly, and considered, for the first time, as the coexistence of complication and felicity, agony and joy, intolerance and forgiveness. But just because something is, for the first time, looked at beneath the sharp eye of a microscopic lens doesn't mean that it has not existed previously. Observation is not the core of being; being is the core of being. A four year old is as much in love with life as a ninety-four year old.

The problem is, I can't find the energy to complete this train of thought. It's started, but my mind becomes clouded with how much I want to say and how carefully I need to think it out in order to get the point across clearly. I've tried, and I've no doubt I'll pick up this train of thought again. I've been thinking about love and the nature of human relationships for awhile now. It started when my sister, Wolfy Grins, asked me to write a poem or form of prose regarding our relationship or... something of the sort. I feel like I'm going to miss a deadline or something, because I just haven't been able to write anything down. Mostly what I want to write has to do with the variation of love and its flavor in life.

But now my brother's insisting I make him a sandwich and my brain is completely fried. Damn it, I wish I knew how to write anymore. I used to, I really did, once upon a time, I knew how to sit down and write. But now I just can't do it anymore, and I regret more than anything letting the habit fade away into obscurity. I'm off to make a sandwich.