yobech505

An Ode to Emotions

Would I welcome the ability to hate?  It is an emotion, one opposite of love.  And I love.  But hate?  I cannot find it in my heart to hate.  It just isn’t there.

Sometimes I want to.  Hate that is.  It would make the end of love so much easier.  I guess I would have to find room for it which is not likely.

Is passion an emotion?  Perhaps.  It has to come with certain other characteristics.  Is it always love that accompanies the intensity would be a better question.  For me, yes, but it shows with a dark side.  This macabre flank takes it and skewers it with spurts of anger, despair, and even desperation.  Not much of an upside to an enhancing image.

Love is an emotion.  I feel it, felt it, lived it, enjoyed it and, at times, tried my damnedest to hate it.  Now, there’s a potential oxymoron if ever there was one.  The analogy, the implication, that you can hate love, oh what philosophers could do with that one.

Somewhere in this heart of mine, a memory of passion will linger.  The mere glow of the tip of a candle will stay in place.  The secret desire, the hidden longing, the distant and fading dream will seek, and hope, in futility, to find what once was.  But the scent of the wax, melted by the flame, will remain forever elusive, solid, keeping its shape, its aroma to itself. 

The passion of the moment, brought on by the memory, will continue to cry out, sometimes in rage, sometimes in confusion and then in a series of words, syllables, that can only lead to regret and they will say what is felt but misunderstood, heard but muffled by a listener who’s eardrums pick up only the message they want to.

Emotions.  They mess with the psyche, with the brain, and the heart.  They make untruths out to be true even when they are not.  They scramble to let go, releasing hurt, and desire only to love again.  Unhindered, because they cannot be controlled.  Hidden, yes.  Maybe suppressed. Controlled, no. 

I will not hate.  For that I am grateful.  Better put, I cannot hate.  It is an emotion my brain does not comprehend, or believe in.  It makes me tend to believe that I am an older soul than I was told I was.

For Page 6:  I don’t know as much about what a person is feeling as I profess to sometimes.  It makes for some interesting perspectives.