It is addictive.

The countours of her face seem kind. Smooth. Elegant in the same way an old woman would be elegant, but it is only foreshadowed. It isn't now. Now she is a girl.
The shades of color she wears are not boasted. They are simply there, yet at the same time, hold a humid humility of necessary silence in her complete image.

I can't hear what she's saying, but the way her mouth moves, and the perceptual silhouhette of her face cast a feeling of warmth and gentleness upon the space between her and I.
I glance confidently back and forth between her stanced existence at the library's counter, and the scene I am echoing upon the screen.

Looking at her, I don't feel an immediate sexual attraction. I feel appreciation. I am happy she exists. I am glad there are still people like her in the world, which is filled with a dark self-imposing cynicism brought on by the flaunted shell-shock of consumer society. A great regressive immaturity is lost in her; she is still real.

I know through a strange pang of intuition that she has the potential to overwhelm me with her humid innocence. She could wrap her arms around my mind so gently as to make me revel in our great oneness and forget it to be a beautiful transcience, as if she owes it to me to be here. She could take me like Kiera took me. A silent integrity.

I used to fear such a silent integrity in women, but only because I felt I did not always possess it myself.
I no longer believe in 'falling' in love. It is dangerous. I have only lost myself in falling. Even if I had found myself before I came across such a sharp junction.

Falling in love, I think, is part of our society's great regressive immaturity. It is addictive, though.. like a pinched vein pumped full of heroin, or that aesthetic craving one has for coffee as their feet become one with puddles and rain, and they know the whole walk is ahead of them because the busses have finished their rounds for the day. The whole walk, you can not make the most of the beautiful unpleasantness. All you can think about is that piping hot cup of coffee, and what's in it for you.

But a cup of coffee is more like the dawn of a relationship, just as you stand on the precipice of self-bondange. The pinched vein full of heroin is more adequate to describe the chained and tortured depths of 'true' love. You fall so hard, you completely forget yourself and, for that matter, completely forget your lover as well. When finally the relationship comes to a nuclear ending, you are left struggling to find the peices amidst a cloud of tears. Sometimes you don't realize how sharp a peice you are picking up, and end up cutting yourself on the rubble. Your first impulse is to cry harder and let yourself bleed to death because there is something easy and fluent and beautiful about waiting around for death and pity.

Something addictive.

We forget how to rise in love, because it is always easier to sink than to swim. But if you truly want to survive, you will swim. Not only will you swim, you will climb. You will fly. You will become an astronaut of reality and see the Universe is really who you are. You will discover you are never alone, but to do that it takes a mountaineer; it takes a lifetime of energy, effort, and inexhaustible passion to find the truth.

But it is far easier to fall.

It is addictive.