I feel like my heart is leaking. Liquid gold flowing from a small puncture at the bottom of my heart.
And it spills, slowly, dripping down into my stomach and forms a puddle. Spreads from my heart and fills my veins, traveling its way into my fingertips and the palms of my hands. My heart, the leaky faucet.
This is how I feel when I think about my future. When I picture myself standing at the head of a classroom, explaining to a room of young girls what it means when James Joyce doesn’t allow his characters to get to do the things they want. What it means to be paralyzed, in your own mind. What it means to be stuck, in your very own ways.
This is how I feel when I think about what starting something means to me. What it means to want to do something different and make it mean something. This is how I feel when I think about making moves of goodness. When I think about making vows of forever.
No one is spared from l o v e. I hate to tell you this, but you can’t avoid it. Love drips from the heart. Sings in your blood. It will not trace a backwards path. You can’t run away from it, like a bill that must be paid, like a loan you owe the bank. You owe this to yourself, this love of yours—the love won’t let you wait. Love wants you now, and I’m afraid it won’t take you on your terms.
Whatever it is you love, whatever it is or whomever it is that makes your heart want to move aside oceans and mountains, lakes and trees and bridges and meadows, you’ve got to let it do just that. Let it do its thing.
Let the love riot. Inside and outside of yourself. Let the love live.