Thistle

At a railway station a man stands holding a woman in his arms . He wants to fall into her; he wishes to vaporize and be drawn in with her breath. He feels that a thistle lodged in his brain, a prickly thought is on his mind, he thinks that she may only wish to board the train.

Later the man is witnesses to the the beauty of world, when he sees the rising sun and the awakening of the day, when he hears the sweet cloonk and gurgle of the stream from which his thirst is quenched , when he feels the caress of a warm breeze brought to him fragrantly through the swaying bows of pine. He then feels a deep love for the earth, he wishes to be of it, to be one with it. He does not care that the earth and all of nature offer him no regard. He is content to love that which cannot return love.

The thistle in his mind is caused by a code writ in his body, a heritage that wishes to be driven into the future, it pays for its fare in bliss and despair, When not fulfilled it becomes the germ of the hermit the seed of the drunk.
I wrote this a long while back, and kept it in a mental drawer. It was an attempt to try and understand why I, and others need to have our affection returned, why we're not content to simply admire. It's my contemplation on the nature of unrequited love. I end within a suggestion that it is a product of our biology. Had I written this at an earlier time in my life I would have framed it in a more developmental way, something with a Freudian flavour.

Now as I think of these questions , at this time, neither theory seems to fit.

I invented the word cloonk, it is that hollow sound that you hear sometimes at random, it is made by the flow of a stream, its a beautiful sound. if you stare at a stream and ask it these questions. It's only reply is a hollow cloonk. I think it means, Go figure boy, you're on your own.