To dare call it love.

A fair amount of stuff that I read is incoherent. Just a jumble of words. Words that leave me cold. Words without real meaning. For me. Not necessarily for others. I merely don't connect with the particular writer. The writer may have a good reputation. May be recognized as a great writer. For instance, I deem some writers to be too flowery. Or too descriptive. They are like painters. They are brilliant at describing a scene. Or an object. Maybe the petal of a flower. Many poets do that. Leave me cold. Maybe because I'm looking for a thought. And I don't find it. I want more than beauty. I want a concrete thought. That moves me. And I want more than words. I want meaning. And I don't always find it. That may be my fault, I admit. I'm not prepared to find meaning in everything. I pick and choose. I look for a connection. And I don't always find it. A little bit like love. I don't fall in love with everyone. In fact, it's a rare being that stirs my passion. Deeply. In profoundly intimate ways. To dare call it love. Unconditional love. Total love. Genuine love. --Jim Broede