We can't help who we love, nor the intensity of the loving. We can't help that bone-deep aching that can come with the need-love, nor the breathless exhilaration of the want-love.
We can't help feeling driven to the edge and tipped over, dropped over, launched over into the grand unknown.
We can't help out flight through turbulent winds, blazing glorious shards of light and dark, sun and moon and stars setting our prismatic feathers alight as we flutter futilely seeking to control our wildly wandering path through a maelstrom of stillness.
We can't help out motley-clad hearts dancing with ungainly, mocking steps, jingling merrily discordant bells with every stomp and whirl.
We can't help our madness, whatever direction the wind be blowing.
All we can hope for is to retain our core and live on, live on, live on, as if we are not, each moment, being entirely remade by our own conflagration.
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