July 7, 2007

I hate hearing people talk about love.  I just don’t think they get it.  Too many people attribute false qualities to concepts they don’t understand.  They do this to anchor themselves.  They borrow words they’ve heard in songs, or read in letters.  They do this only to go on and give those words back.  These are small people – small people who understand very very little.  I really believe this… Small people don’t understand love. 

They lack the capacity for it. 

Small people see love as something that completes them… as something that can save them from their loneliness and bring real meaning into their life.  They are the kindof people who look at love and see romance.  They see happiness, and a balm for their pain.

That’s not love.  Love is pain.  It’s a confusion that ruins your life… that upsets it from its safe, comfortable rhythm. 

Small people feel false love – an emotion that radiates from the other.  An energy they gather from the person standing before them – a palate they use to recolor their world.  They invite that person into their life easily – they’ve always had a place for them.  Because small people don’t love the person standing before them.  They love the love they receive.

Real love isn’t derived from another person… it’s more cyclical than that.  It’s pain turned inward.  It’s the force that has you choose to ruin yourself, to tear your whole life apart.  Real love doesn’t fit into a comfortable hollow – it’s something you have to make room for.  It’s the rape of your natural state.  It’s the inclusion of something transient, all to satisfy the need for something that feels, something you wish to be eternal.

But it isn’t.  Love doesn’t just fade – it chokes and shudders and grasps for your hand as it slips away with every breath, one more shallow than the next.  It soils itself when it dies, twisted up in white bedsheets.  It leaves you without any notice, with no conception of where you’ll be after it goes.

Loving another person is an act of cruelty to oneself – its a wound you create by choice.  It is inviting loss and pain into your house, while being fully aware of what it is.

That’s what makes it so beautiful.

All the other shit… all the cuteness and the pet names, the tenderness and the touches, all the dinners and bracelets and poems and songs and fights and funerals and weddings and anniversaries and cakes and special moments… those are meaningless.  They’re nothing.

Love is choosing to hurt, and holding on to it for as long as you can.  And in the end… love is in not knowing how to let that hurt go.

Why don’t people understand that?


One Response to “Love”

  1. Georgia Says:

    i’m printing this out and putting it on my wall. it was beautiful

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