There's a tree outside my apartment. Its not a special tree, not large enough, not small enough, just a small normal tree. Like this sentence.

The tree is next to a lamppost. The lamp is round and spherical and yellow.

I love the tree. I love the lamppost.

As in love love. Have you ever loved? Have you ever loved inanimate things? Have you ever seen something so ordinary yet so beautiful it split your heart? Have you ever felt something so, so beautiful that you had to let it into you?

Have you ever cried watching the skyline of a city you knew so well, looking at skeletons of abandoned buildings waiting to retire, watching the furrowed brow of an old grandmother serving ttukbokki, watching young elementary kids gather around her like blind squinting piglets around a warm, contented sow?

At night, the lamp turns on, and it shines everything around it into dim yellow oblivion. The few leaves that partially obscure the globe splatter shadows on the ground with brushes made of telephone wires and palettes of muffler smoke.

It doesn't matter, though. That's a phrase I use often, I feel as if I'm too full. Of love.

I can't help it. Its as if I see something, and then I understand it, I know it, I know it, and its then that I can't help but love it with everything I have. Its overwhelming. Not love as in like, not love as in humanly person-to-person love, but love as in deep fucking love. There's no other way to put it.

I'm in love. Not with anyone else, though. I feel as if I've hugged whatever it is that I love with everything my arms, and my hands and fingers are on pins and needles, but it doesn't matter. Have you ever loved someone that you cried every night and mentally threw your whole life away just for a wish? What if,

-what if-

What if you could love things like you love people? What if you became one? What would you do if you knew what 'beautiful' meant?

What if it feels that the only way to spread the love is to talk in ALL CAPS and all bold?

I love the corrugated metal roofs of the houses next door. I love litte children crying, the scrawls of magic-marker graffiti on sidewalks, the telephone poles as they flit by, the empty chairs that wait endlessly. I love long lists that make no sense. I love, but I wish I could love more. MORE. MORE. MORE.

I could cry forever, full of happiness.

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