coming again this summer only to pass on us again this fall

Written April 5

the jacarandas are coming back again, and that love sickness is coming back again. a reoccurring delirium of flashing purples and bell flowers. each year they come, and for each year that passes, another and another feeling appears and disappears. i get encouraged and disappointed by them -- the jacarandas, as if i expect them to make me feel something whenever they return but  i never get enough. i never feel enough of that -- i don't know what -- that melancholy connectedness to bitter passing seasons. maybe that's not the core of living -- in the innate knowledge we will all pass away as others passed on before as they die from our lives. there there are those who will come and go but the ones who choose to stay are the ones worth loving. if only love could mend incurable illness and make stay for good the jacarandas.

her love bracelet on her; her happiness dancing around her hair, lone streak of red or green or blue skimming through it in the front. she's happy, she's happy. that's enough : to be friends is only death if you expected mas. I love her, i don't love her. i imagine her; i envision us. she is comfort and familiarity, but not inspiration or sensibility. she loves another : you cannot put a value on a spectrum to measure the distance between him and me; love is chaotic neutral, doesn't work in a way we can understand. friendship is calculated, exact, pointed and drawn for construction before construction begins. i bet he's a great guy, seriously treats her right and tenderness. sometimes i lose hope that i'll ever act that way, but i'm encouraged by my self-consciousness, which says to always aspire, you'll never diminish, and look for the good in others. the commendable virtues in people i know are most perfectly viewed by those who possess the same ones. to see the good in others is to see the good in oneself. if i'm always seeing the bad in others, i'll always see the bad in myself.

that love bracelet, a signifying symbol of people in love, kind-hearted mutuality. an existential hospitality: look, there's no reason for celebration, so we create moments to pick and choose them. in this way, we pickchoose our friends and partners. the choosing is powerful. the choice is all. all at least in the beginning: the choice means nothing or very little in the end. that love bracelet: i wonder if she still wears it? wears her SOs breath on her lips; kisses on her round cheek. what a goody dopegoofy dogoofy dope she is. but still -- but still -- there's something about her that holds me back, keeps me unsteady. she's a thief: i saw her steal one time in a classroom before a class was in there; somebody left a rubber stamp in the shape of a butterfly or dog or something on the whiteboard tray, and she saw it and she examined it and she laughed in glee that it was cute; and she stole it because she wanted it. i find comfort in thievery.

but that charm bracelet, and i mean that charm bracelet she wore/wears to school. what i find disappointing, she falls in love with, neither choosing but the choice bruising only one. the choice is not whether we fall in love, but how we react, act, what our response to the things we say back into the chaotic neutral scrambled egg.

what more can i say about ana's charm bracelet that said "I love you" on it. her boyfriends message to his girlfriends mind and heart. her comfort in him, a good-hearted, warm-hearted, warm-bodied man. a person in love with a person. people loving other people. a cause to live and die for.

the choice is all. the choice is all. she chose before i met her. now there's no time. the jacarandas and summer have gone, are gone.

in another five years the separation will stretch these glass bodies beyond the liquid melting point. and when the story ends, your journey with them ends too; you sort of die with them. when the story ends, you sort of end too. that part of you dies too.