Bob Dylan ~ Shelter From The Storm

It's early enough that I'll finish this tonight and it's late enough for my thoughts to trail which is imperative in this format that I feel like I must stand by despite my want, at times, to use a more firm punctuation ie. the period, however that disrupts the flow of my intent here, it puts stops and pauses where in running there really aren't any stops or pauses --> there are people who have suffered recently, the losses in life that implicate humanness as the fragile and tenuous tiny organism that it really is and then, when at a moment of total consciousness of the concert between flesh and soul, the birth of a child juxtaposed against the most messy a concert of opposites, of wonderful joy and tremendous sorrow, of swelling with love and absolute aloneness, of hearty laughter and weeping loudly, a concert of opposites of cruelty that one must survive or be swept off as a completely fully devastated human woman (in this case), a point where putting a period and moving on becomes the self spoken tough love--a mantra, but there is no period, even if figurative, being in concert this way commands the vulnerability in each of us and when I saw you the other day I hugged you and started to cry but you had done your makeup and looked as beautiful as ever but I know your body still hurts in ways that no mother could endure especially in retrospect while my boys hurl the cantaloupes, swing the celery and you said that you're making great progress with your recovery and the doctor said that soon you will start running again and I am stunned by your strength, for the positivity in your eyes, and for looking beautiful despite the hurt and I love you for wanting to start running again as soon as possible, your first run in many months and I honor running that much more because of you and because what I've insisted as pretty much only a strong metaphor for life for you will become something that you'll rely on -- and if you'd let me, I would love to join you. Period.