Increasingly, there doesn't seen to be any genuine love in the world. People have agendas that we are not honest about - to others or ourselves. We look for people to blame for our problems, hate for our discomfort, and are willing to engage in all sorts of crazed fiction in order to sustain the unsustainable.

We do not typically allow ourselves to be vulnerable and honest with each other. On the occasion that we do, it is out of desperation and, often, with people we know are a bad choice but that we desperately want to make work because of some dillusion of perfection. We fear the other even as we beg to connect with them. Never contending with this fact, we march headlong into ruin pretending to have insight all along the way. When we are proven foolish, we play victim in order to absolve ourselves of responsibility.

We are not kind even when kindness is easy and unrisky. We find little light in the world, complain when there isn't any, and try to snuff it out when we worry it is brighter than our own. We smile with a dagger behind our backs. We dread sadness as we murder the joy in our hearts.

Bukowski said "beware their love ... but there is genius in their hatred", but he also said "there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out." This morning for some reason, I feel this conflict more than usual. I see it in the world around me and in myself. I feel disconnected to it and still see my place in it at the same time. I reject it, recoil from it... all while knowing that I have perpetuated it at times in spite of my best intentions.

"And it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep. Do you?"