the quiet place.

It is a sad, cold anger that runs through me: clean and simple, and otherwise directionless.

And I know I should not speak or think in times like these because I let bitterness consume me: and I hate everything.

Things are not myself or themselves: and then some.

And I do not know for the life of me how you find it in yourself to love me so: I see nothing worth loving.

And yet I know to live is to love: and to love is still to love: but days like these I never care.

Perhaps that is the crux: the root: not caring: the undoing of the heart.

To the extent you avoid things: places: people: to the extent that you run so far inside yourself

either you spontaneously self-combust and die from all the things you never say: or your heart breaks:

like a stone in winter: ignorant to the end: unknowing and unwise: eradicatingly passionate, for all the wrong reasons.

Help me to see. I am running to you in this time. 

The bitterness seeps into the ground even as I ground myself in this place: this silent, quiet place full of something I cannot say: something I once knew.

Perhaps this is what I know and miss and need: and not the quiet, maddening noise and outside-ness of the base of the world. 
Perhaps this is salvation. Perhaps even I, yet, can learn.

All these people: so fast and seemingly sure. I see them and the clean, cold anger stirs somewhere deep.

All these faces: I look and I turn away on purpose: they do not deserve the judgement of a fool.

I share you: it is better, perhaps: although in all truth it is this quiet, secret place I share. You in my heart: you have always been there.

Perhaps I will never be fully right: never really know how to be completely there. But you are my base, the grounded rock I need. Love?

What is love? I who think I have known and seen love: Yours and others', these great and honorable men and women who hath loved me.