The PURRfect one.

Except it never is perfect.

He could be witty, intelligent, mature, caring, loving, understanding, beautiful.

But he has whiskers.

Ahhh. Purrrrfect.

Dead and dying.

I was going through my old blog the other day, reading some of the comments some of my previous regular readers had posted. They elicited contrasting reactions, either putting a smile on my face, or reminding me of the dark I was in when writing some of those older posts.

Due to a spurt of randomness, I decided to pay those readers a visit, just to tag their boards and to remind them I had moved to a different place. Hoping to invite them to come read and peruse through my writings once more.

It turned out to be a wholly depressing experience.

Many had... stopped. Stopped blogging, writing, digitally penning their thoughts and publishing their emotions online. And I realised I wasn't alone in considering 'retirement' from my voluntary profession. I may never know why so many of them had decided to discontinue their writing efforts, and it puts into context my own dithering over whether or not to quit.

I recall extracting myself from the notion that they were my readers, but real people with real lives, and very real responsibilities. And that for all their appreciation of my writing, and the awe they seemed to display at what I had written, I was, for better or worse, merely an abstraction to them. Merely a little footnote that would be considered when they came online, to be perused and appreciated for fleeting moments.

They would not need my insight to survive, nor my stories to entertain them all the time. That they would not need my advice to solve their problems, nor would they need my creativity to brighten up their lives.

I realised, how insignificant I am. And how little difference it would make if I were to indeed stop writing out my thoughts and feelings.

But I will go on. Because in the end, it is for me.

It's Late.

I can't sleep.

My thoughts are being consumed.

Overturned.

Overruled.

She's asleep.

I'll join you in your dreams, dear. Soon.

Next week can't come soon enough.

I hate and abhor this.

I hate the fact that love can kill you.

But I wouldn't really want to die any other way.

To die by the hand of love.

Describe

Words are half-truths.

Words can by no means completely convey the depth of what it is you feel. Of what it is you experience, tolerate, cherish, and treasure. What is the significance of such a realisation, on the weakness of the language we so steep ourselves in?

Everything we say is a lie.

How so? Are not words at the very least half truths? The core of human understanding is to be brought up on the existence of whole truths. That whole truth is what defines our conception of our surroundings. Because the natural, undeniably original, reaction we are to give to anything that does not make up of something we wholly understand, is almost always instantly fear.

We fear the barely understood paranormal. We fear undocumented 'regimes'. We fear ideologies we do not understand, or political concepts we cannot grasp. We fear the weird, the strange, the unique, and the different. We fear change.

Because we do not understand. Because all that we know of what is not our own, are half truths. Anything less than absolute truth, we treat as a lie. Is it not a support of judicial practice to swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Our courtrooms cannot accept half truths. Our juries, our judges, and our executioners, cannot accept half truths.

Why then, do we not fear the spoken and written word? Why do we not fear language?

Anyone who has been passionate about anything, be it a burning love, or a cold, self-consuming hate, will understand what it is like to be chained by words, to be held back from expressing how they truly feel and wish to convey. Because they know, as do I, as do many others, I suspect, that words, are half truths.

Can you fully comprehend, experience, and probe into what it means to say I Love You? Or to see it written out to you? Can you ever fully picture what must have gone through someone's heart, and soul, as they spoken or penned those words? No, you can't. For we are crippled by our own ways of communication. We are steeped in lies. These lies are words.

By right then, you should feel fear, when someone utters the words I Love You. You should be afraid, when someone tells you what they claim to be the truth. For everything that is ever said, or spoken, is a lie.

Everything I tell you is a lie.

Rain...

... I love it. Don't you?

It's pouring outside right now. Ideal weather to cuddle up to someone on a couch, watch a sappy romantic DVD, and just chit chat the evening away... I still believe in Love, come what may... I know I always will..