"Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge. That's what it is: an edge, a razor. It draws up through the center of your life, cutting everything in two. Before and after. The rest of the world falls away on either s...
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{Matthew}
Love.
Such a serious yet complex thing for some of us to feel, express, and sometimes even understand. We've all felt it at some point in our lives. Poets write about it; singers sing about it – and an entire industry has grown up around finding it, expressing it, and maintaining it. But what is love?
For me, love means having the freedom to be who I want to be without fear of the consequences. It means enjoying the smallest yet simplest things that others might find boring or uninteresting. Love means having the people you've known your entire life support you through the ups and downs. It means having the strength to face the world head-on, knowing there are people on the other side waiting for you. I could go on and on about what I think love is, but I don't have enough time to finish this song.
I sighed as I raked my fingers through my hair, hoping a melody would pop into my mind, but like so many times before, nothing came.
I had until the end of the week to compose a song for, hopefully, my soon-to-be record label. Yet every time a lyric or melody bubbled up, it vanished into thin air, leaving me with a blank lyric sheet and my guitar perched on my lap.
"Ugh," I exclaimed, setting the guitar on the floor and pushing away from my desk. I'd been cooped up in my room for the past five hours trying to think, but my brain had seemingly decided to short-circuit in the middle of my songwriting process.
A knock on my door made me look up to see my roommate, Andrew, poking his head through the opening.
"Sorry, am I interrupting?"
"Not at all. Going out?" I asked, placing my guitar down. I noticed he was dressed nicely in black jeans, a sky-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and black dress shoes. His unruly blond locks were left untouched.
"Yeah. I'm meeting Hannah for dinner," he replied. Hannah was his on-again, off-again girlfriend of four years. She's stunning, with bright emerald green eyes and midnight black hair cascading down her back like a waterfall. She's petite, around 4'5", while Andrew is at least a good foot taller than her. Despite their height difference, they made a perfect pair.
"Are you going to pop the question tonight?" I asked with a smirk, making him chuckle.
"Think she'll say yes?" he teased.
"Of course she will; that girl loves you like crazy," I replied, and he grinned. "Go before she thinks you're standing her up." He cursed under his breath before yelling over his shoulder about dinner being left in the microwave, and I shook my head, deciding to fill my rumbling stomach with food before attempting to write my love song.
Don't get me wrong; I've written love songs plenty of times, but for some reason, now of all times, I was drawing a blank.
I sighed and heated up leftover dinner, then sat down at the cluttered table. I noticed a pile of mail for both Andrew and me. Grabbing my small stack, I skimmed through it while stuffing a spoonful of rice and chicken into my mouth, nearly choking when I saw a wedding invitation.
