It's an odd sensation when one realizes epiphanies don't solve a thing. In some cases, it's a creeping entity and is most likely spectacular. Life is all the better for it. Most often they're static and have no movement. The chances for mobility are slim, and you're left with only a feeling of realization; which is much less spectacular. My realization, or mini epiphany, if you will, came to me last night. Before I unfold this new development of mind, I'd like to first point out that I was slipping into sleep, and may have well been dreaming that this was even worth mentioning. Dreams happen to be very self-centered, thus the origin of my next line. I have the ability to make any person happy. As you are in bewilderment, and maybe in a fit of hysterics, I'd like you to consider it for a moment. Yet, strikingly able to keep our own morals, faith, convictions, parts of a dynamic personality, and overall demeanor, we become moldable to love. It's a frightening thing, really, this dismantling and reconstruction of vulnerable moments. Love has its power, and I'm not sure I'm quite comfortable. As it is, it's the truth. A truth lived for. If I hadn't paused to focus on beginning a family, the possibilities for this pliant love of mine are numerous. And still, through them, I have the capability to move in leagues.
Lest not forget too eager a hip often comes with a cold shoulder. Moving through old ways to the shape of flesh deeper than surface affection. As early as 3,095 days ago allegiance to dying tenderness disoriented the senses. Luckily, unruly endurance became confused, flailing for rights of my own. It took attention to love to destroy unreciprocated love. Solidification took a course through ancient arteries.
It's women's curse to prostitute goodwill towards men. A saint loves too easy. Before there is One, there are many. And anyhow, the cement has been poured into new molds. I'm satisfied with the evolving configuration that my love forms.
