full of moxie and viscosity

I'm spending today thinking about He Who Drank Citron With Me. Upon completion of that dang work of creative non-fiction, it becomes prevalent again that the way I feel for this incendiary man is not just... history anymore, I guess. I have these deep seated pangs, sort of indescribable pangs. I know I loved him, in the wrong way, but I did love him (still do, let's be honest): am I capable of loving him in a different way, ever? Can old feelings translate into different ones?

I have to ask the question again, are extreme emotions really different from one another? Or are they all pretty much the same, all residing on a particular shelf in my emotional pantry, just different contexts? Perhaps love, hate, angst, guilt, sorrow, elation, inspiration, adoration... are all the same, really. They all come from the same spot. That low, deep spot. The one that truly spreads into your nerve endings and cell structure. The one that resonates, echoes. That spot. They're just different stimulus.

Can I allow myself to explore different stimulus to an old experiment? Get on a plane to discover the truth about myself and the dalai lama (my personal buddha, my inspiration, the brain, the heart)?

Or upon arrival, will I find, instead, that the old experiment has left me in the laboratory years ago? The bitter root, the revengeful radish? Will I leave knowing I lost my chance in the winter?