Words, my opiates

I purchased three new books today: The Stranger by Camus, Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, and a pocket size dictionary. I purchased all three of these gems for a dollar each at Morgan's school. I contemplated buying the pocket book version of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, but decided against it, since I already own one copy. Also on my list of purchases was a journal. The one I am currently writing in is almost full. I must admit, I was very happy with my purchases.

I started reading The Stranger and was not disappointed. When I told my friend that I was reading it he said, "heard it's a bit of a downer." I told him that sometimes we need to read books that express sadness. He said "why, is it cathartic?" I responded, "that is only secondary gain, it is necessary to know that there are others in the world that have traveled down the abyss. We gain understanding, and a voice." Once I was finished pontificating, we talked about trivial matters.

Another thing I was ruminating over was something someone said to me today. The person said that he didn't believe in "unconditional love." He said that love could erode due to a lack of nurturing. He illustrated his point by saying that a man he knew had a delinquent son, that for years was manipulative, abusive and had terrorized him. After the accumulation of intense emotional pain, the father decided that he was going to disown his son, that his son was now dead to him. He went on to say that the man was much happier after severing ties with his son. I wonder, can love erode with each wound that it is dealt? I suppose it can. If love is a reservoir, then it must be replenished daily. Otherwise we are left yearning for that which has been depleted.