I aspire to become a writer, one who writes poetry, short stories, music and possibly a screenplay. Recently I’ve been feeling horribly blocked. And I realized that my being creatively blocked is due to situations that I find very arduous to describe, love in particular. I’ll have you know that I was recently let down by someone, someone who I longed for to be my lover, but the situation spiraled negatively out of control. We attempted to fix things- I’m sure we have all had our share of late night conversations, conversations that either assist in building the two of you up or the words exchanged dug an even deeper ditch. One part of the argument is that the other isn’t giving enough, and one part thinks the other wants too much, and they don’t have what is necessary to offer or they’re simply aren’t willing too. The past few weeks I have been writing about my curiosity of love. What exactly is it; facile, complex, both? Although it always boils to what love is, it’s something no one without a doubt knows. I can write my poetry about it, but that will only be my perspective and either you, the audience agree or disagree. I can read other writer’s work and listen to my friends and strangers experiences with it and that will truthfully add no value or persuade my thoughts of it. It is actually quite scary the reality I am facing as I write this, for me, but hoping someone read and possibly have an answer to the question above. 

John Keats, a phenomenal writer, a man who’s words have left me shaken in awe. And many times because of the subject love. He spoke of the love he had for his brother George, the man who essentially raised him, after both their Father and Mother died. He wrote about how when he writes, none of the lyrics are for the world, butonly for his dear brother. I feel that is something especially beautiful, a true love- for his brother. Thanking him, George, for being who he was. That is a love great writers beyond Keats could never mimic, be that in another set of poems, a play, a movie, or in music. 

I will end the same as the inception of this…piece, a piece about love and what it could possibly mean. John Keats once wrote ” Nothing is ever real until you experience it.” And in those words I fully believe, because I’m finally realizing that the person I chose to fall in love with,or more appropriatly: cling too. Came only shortly after my anhedonic mother had given up on me, abandoned me. Being so young, so still immature, dealing with an emotional hurricane as I was, I can say I’ve experienced what real loneliness is. But as for real love, it hasn’t happened… yet. But I’ll try not to waste another moment being angry with it.

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