The Writers' Block Files

Love

People say that Love is easy. It is light, soothing, and carefree. They say it brings clarity, driving everything into sharper focus, into brighter color. They say it makes them feel so jubilant, to be in love, and that nothing could ever destroy that pure, undulating joy.

They lie.

Love is pain. It is heart-wrenching pain that will not let you go. It's that pinching you get in your heart whenever you see them, that burning desire you feel for them wherever you go. It is the willingness to do most anything they ask, it is the excruciating torture of walking past them and pretending you're nothing more than friends. It is the agony of watching them suffer, and knowing there is nothing you can do. It's the screaming sobs of rejection, then the dull ache of emptiness.

Love is the trial of flame, scorching through you without care, melting your resolve and turning your thoughts to ash. Love is cruel. Love is unforgiving. Love is the cold claws of ice that curl around one's gut, freezing their very blood. Love is the fire of touch, the nearly unbearable agony of contact.

Love is the burning haze that clouds one's judgement, the red field that descends upon the world when another stands in your place. Love is the compatriot of jealousy, the comrade of hate. Love is the icy warmth that crawls across your skin whenever they touch you; it is the awkward shyness of uncertainty. It is the driving desire to be perfect. It is the live coal resting right next to, or even on top of, your heart, changing your blood to liquid fire and your thoughts to flame. It is the fear of rejection, it is the ice of loneliness.

Love is the dark of the night, and the bright of the morning. It is the burning of the sun and the ice of the moon. It is the docility of a rabbit and the venom of a snakebite. It is the majesty of the eagle and the spear of the hunter. It is the bond of unbreakable friendship, it is the tattered banner of war. It is the might of the lion and the fear of his teeth and claws. It is the parade of the peacock and the sharpness of its beak. It is the extravagance of Paris and the dirt and grime of that same city. It is the glitter of the knife and the blood pooling beneath your surface. It is the grace of trust and the bitter anguish of betrayal.

Love is the black vacuum of space and the brilliant beauty of earth. It is the lushness of the rainforest and the harshness of the desert. It is the smile of the blessed and the tears of the abandoned. It is the pounding heart of the runner and the dull lethargy of the failed. It is the sweet caress of the summer breeze against your cheek and the sudden sting of sleet thereafter. It is the chill of a midwinter's night, it is the warmth of a midsummer's day. It is the brilliant burst of song, it is the screech of nails on a chalkboard.

Love is the darkness of despair and the desperation of hope. It is the fire of the sunset and the softness of the moonrise. It is the cold, calculating glittering of the stars, yet it is also the warmth of the sun. It is the cool, velvet silkiness of still water; the warmth of the baking earth in summertime. It is the sweet scent of honeysuckle wafting through the open windows in spring, it is the sharp, bitter taste of an unripe blackberry bursting against your tounge.

Love is peace, soothing and quiet against your soul. It is agitation, the out-of-reach itch that sears through your heart, demanding you do something. It is the dark foreboding in the back of your mind, whispering impossible worries to you. It is the bright relief that flows through your veins as they return home, safe.

Love is radiance from Heaven, it is the agonizing, sulfuric heat of Hell. It is the dull throb of death, it is the bright, vibrant joy of life. It is the comfort of your best friend, it is the tears of death and of the dying. Because when Love dies, part of you dies with it.

Love is pain. It is sorrow, heartbreak, agony, and the most efficient torture man has ever known.

And Love is worth it. So, so worth it.