being fond of love, but not desiring the trepidation of it
There was a time where I thought I was in love and calmly said so. A time where someone loved me and I didn't love them back, and vice versa. These moments not much different from when I was truly in love and slept poorly, spoke out loud to the wall, discovering the hidden genius to my hands. But also, the times I felt less in love and less than loved, were, to be honest, not so different either. Each ridiculous in their own way and each tender, sometimes even the false is tender.
If I'm honest though, my perception of love is unreliable because I have no idea how to define it. The concept itself is unbearable within my intellect, for no apparent reason. I can only assume that real love is beautifully chaotic. The loss of control; loss of perspective. Losing that ability to protect yourself. The greater the love, the greater the chaos. It's a given and I think I like this conception. Beautiful chaos is so poetic, almost ironically. I think my problem with love is that I give people only the permission to not love me. I tell them 'I am a cathedral of dead bodies and I'd rather burn myself down than change the locks.'
I hate love till I don't. Till I realise it is the only theme I enjoy writing about. I stop hating it when I come to terms with the fact that love is our sun, night and day, our sixteen candles ever protected, ever safe and sound. Love is that heroine from the right kind of Godfather. Do you see what I mean? To create the mastery of the falling is to become infatuated with the notion itself.
'They were inside the train car when she started to cry. He was crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made her even more hysterical. He said she could have anything she wanted, but she just couldn't say it out loud. He said Love is larger than the usual romantic love, it's like a religion, it's terrifying. She slept there the night he said I think I'm falling in love with you. Igniting a great unendurable belongingness, like a match in a forest fire. She burned so long, so quiet he must have wondered if she loved him back. She did, she did, she does.'
