This is a piece I scribbled down in my journal, while sitting by the river in Cincinnati. Actual Blog Update coming, whenever it happens.

There was once a man who craved nothing more than to find the person he was to love for the rest of his life. Of course he never would have thought how awfully complicated that goal was.  There were too many ways to love and people to love and be loved by.  No matter what he tried, love would always fade or be found wanting.  He cried out his frustration when he realized that love is only a moment that repeats itself.  It builds slowly or crashes down. It could never last, only the memory has any staying power.

He was tired of being passive.  Patiently waiting for love was starting to make him go dull. He wondered if love could be found. He wondered and wondered and the urge built up inside of him to leave his home and search out this strange and confusing idea. So, he traveled and searched and found many shiny fragments of love.  They were all pretty with different sizes and colors and shapes.

But they were all incomplete, because they always faded.  He tried everything to make them keep their luster. He held a couple close, he  held some at a distance. He polished and painted them. He threw a few into the cool water of the rivers and streams. He warmed some in the bright light of the sun.  Some he buried into the soil, to see if they would grow.  Some he left completely untouched. But always, they dulled or broke or became too hard to pick up.

He knew that love wasn’t possession. It wasn’t being afraid to be apart or a part. He knew that there wasn’t just one kind and he knew to not expect a one and only spark.  But every love took up a place in his heart and as they were lost they made a pain and empty spot, that nothing could fill save the original love’s size, luster, color, weight and shape.

Was the man’s frustration always going to be true? Is love just a moment, the rest just memory and pain?  To this day he wanders on, picking up the pieces he can trying to prove himself wrong. He had to admit that this searching was exciting, and with each piece he became more colorful, shiny and shaped. The one aspect that had been consistent in his journey, and the most beautiful thing he observe about all of the fragments, is that love is uncertain. Except that which he held in his own heart.