Love and I

One cannot write until they have loved. That's what I have been told. I used to disregard that, read it off as a cliché or an exaggeration. I didn't realize until I have loved. Because being in love is the most painful thing you will ever be delighted by.

So here I write. My first piece since I've learned what love is; unconditional sacrifice and heartache. Not even the worst kind of heartache. I mean the longing kind that tears you apart slowly because you are so absolutely captivated by someone you never could have fathomed it a possibility.

It happens slowly. Maybe at first glance you wouldn't have thought that the person would be the one to ruin every conception of love you've ever had. You may have known them already or known of them. But something changes, and it's drastic. I believe that science will never truly figure out what it is that makes us feel this way, chemicals, endorphins, or whatever else may be claimed. It's a human mystery. The type that has people question if it even exists or not.

It does.

And if you're ever so lucky to find true love, you'll understand. Things become clearer and more confusing all at once. You'll start to wonder how this type of feeling isn't broadcasted from the rooftops, why it isn't all anyone ever talks about. It's all you want to talk about, think about, because you never knew it was possible to feel this way. You believe that no one could ever possibly relate to this, it's too much of a  marvelous feeling that you believe that it's sacred, not to be felt by everyone if anyone. And you wonder how you got so lucky.