8) Love and Writing

If May is beautiful, I do not know in what way. It is not why I am in love with her, I am sure. That is all I am sure of with May. Why I am in love with her, or what that even means, I do not know. I did not decide it. It told me and I believed it, though I did not want to and struggled against it. But I could not so much as raise a hand against it. (A briefly shimmering memory shows me something much like that, with intimately known trees and a bottomless fall.) Now, I would not dare fight it, though I am sure I do not like it. Perhaps it will go away if I continue to not understand it. I am just not sure I can live this way. I am not human enough.

I wonder why my supervisor wanted Gail to know about the blog. I hope I did nothing wrong. There are so many things one can not do that I am sure I am confused and have done one of them. So much does not make sense. So many words and so much one can not say to someone else. Words seem to be the weapons of the most civilized people. I think Gail cried because I did something wrong. She still has not told me. But I still have my job, and no one has told me to stop.

Writing is something I must do now. It is an urgency. It is a need like eating and sleeping and intrudes on both. Like love, it was not asked for, but it is much more welcome. Because of love, I need to write. I understand this need as little as I understand love, but I know it is just as necessary. I hope that it is more rewarding.