stop in the name of love

I don't think I really have any right to blog about love. I don't even really know what it is. I extinguish whatever flame comes my way. . . like I am afraid of the blaze and what it might do. One thing I am certain of is that I am not love, not in and of myself, that's for sure. Sure, I love, but my love hurts. Both myself and those it's unleashed upon, I'm afraid. And because of that I do not know if it is even something I should allow out anymore. However, I cannot stop loving. . . in whatever capacity that I do. I've tried to shut the door before, and inevitiably somehow, someone finds a way to come in. Even those that don't even try or suspect it. And that can be rather frightning. . . for both parties. . . maybe not at first, or maybe not til it's discovered, but at any rate,. . . love. It's one of those four-letter words that wreck havic of all degrees wherever it treads. I don't really regret having loved or loving, yet perhaps for the sake of the recipient I may feel some remorse of having subjected them to my love, untamed and indecisive as it is. Grrr. . . didn't I just begin by saying I shouldn't blog about love. Hmmm. . . yes, I do believe I did. I'm not babbling to make love seem trite. I do believe that love is a very real and genuine feeling. Even mine. . . as complicated and uninterpretive as it is. Sure, I still don't understand it. . . but perhaps I think that somehow blogging about it would help me sort things out about it. I donno. At this point all I know is I'm up too late tonight. . . second night in a row, and hence, this entry probably belongs in my drunk on fatigue blog, but the Travel Monkey deserves a little attention now and then too. Can't have them jealous over each other. (uhm, ya, I'm tired. . . personifying blogs could very well count as delerium, couldn't it?!) Ok, ok, I'll stop.