There are questions about love that will always remain unanswered. But then there are questions about how love works with life or along with life, as an inseparable mess and everything gets even murkier, as if there was something even more unanswerable. We exist for it, we subsist on it or it lives for us and feeds on us? Who can tell. None of it makes a lick of difference, but we find that we cannot just take those thoughts to the hammock. We can't lie with them, for they fester and we turn, out there in the sun.
Niall Kelly reminds us that love is a real son of a bitch. It's always such a major issue, but really just a minor inconvenience. We get wrapped up in these silly little threads of emotions and romance, blindsided by the knives and the hands. Kelly's take on the whole thing is one where the entire scene is zoomed out upon and in from the outer framework come the trees, the forest, the meadow, the tall grasses, the space and the distance. He brings into the picture more than just faces and legs and the in-between. The love that he writes and sings about is definitely splendored. It's decorated with the scuffs and the nicks that give it the lived-in, about to be back on the market coziness that it should always have built into it. One should always be afraid of love, that old hitchhiker. Its wanderlust has never been tamed. You can hold it like you can hold a night, like you can hold a morning.