L.O.V.E

It’s sad when you realise that love doesn’t take away your pain or heal your wounds or salve your conscience or assuage your guilt or save your soul. If anything, it makes a bigger mess of you because you become aware of just how empty you really are when he lets go of your hand, of how alone you really are when his arm is no longer around yours, of how broken you really are when he’s not around to fix you with his kisses, of how battered you really are when he stops rubbing your bruises away, of how incomplete and disjointed and fragmented and scattered you are. If anything, it highlights your flaws and blemishes and showcases your tarnishes and defects because you’ve always thought yourself unloveable. But someone comes along and brings you down to your knees with the rapid firing of his machine heart and the impenetrable firewall mechanisms of your own heart are torn down and trampled upon and he tells you that he loves you, despite of, no, because of your flaws and blemishes and tarnishes and defects and it’s the end of your banal existence.

But you sillily think that with love’s huzzah and pizzaz and splendour and all that fucking jazz, you’ll become a new person, happier and freer, and your steps will be quicker and your head will be lighter and your smile will be brighter and your heart will beat faster and your voice will be louder and you will sparkle and shine and sing and dance. And while of that does happen, it doesn’t negate the fact that when the spotlights dim and the curtains close and the audience leaves and it’s just you and the dark and your demons, you’re still broken inside.

Falling in love is lovely. It’s natural and easy and you find yourself falling in love with him every single day of your life and it gives you such a rush, such a high and rapids are gushing inside of you and the most powerful monsoons are raining down on you the most beautiful torrential rains and giant craters of the grand canyon are ensconced in the cavities of your pulsating heart. And it brings with it the promise of a life less solitary, an existence less dreary, a future less weary, and carnal pleasures and wicked fantasies and perverse depravity, and playful banter and idyllic chatter and serious discussions and loud angry words and hisses and rude glares and muttered curses and veiled insults and crude profanities and contenment and acceptance and security and growth and forever.

But you’re a free spirit and something of an extremist and the thought of giving all of yourself to one single entity for the rest of eternity frightens you and nauseates you when there’s so little of you left and even though you know, deep within the secret crevices of your broken heart, that you have found the one who will stand by your side and walk baby steps with you for as long as it takes until you stumble upon yourself, you will fight him for the rest of your life or at least until you’ve come into your own, until you’ve embraced your own immortality, until you’ve come to terms with the limitations of your humanity, until you’ve learned to love the fucking riot of a mess you are, until you’ve forgiven yourself, until you’ve saved yourself, until you’ve loved yourself.

Until then, you’ll love him the only way you know how, with all of yourself, as broken a mess as you are, because you’ve realised that love doesn’t heal you or save you or rescue you or fix you. It accepts you and nurtures you and cocoons you and hugs you tight and holds your hand and never lets go and waits until you’re ready to take the plunge. It just loves you and makes all your pain a little bit more bearable.

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