About a year ago, I wrote a piece personifying love. Or at least my perception of it. The piece is pretty much a conversation between Love and I and I'm noticing all of the flaws she has. How beaten, savaged and torn from her roots she's become. How we've all nurtured this luxury into a mangled whore, who gets thrown around like 'footballs and paper plates'. The piece ended positively; at the end, love leaves me as I'm begging to know her secret and tells me that I need to find love in here before I find any love out there. All warm and fuzzy.
I've got some cringing, some laughing, and some 'mmhmm' responses out of the piece but I guess what I'm stuck on is that main image. That marketable, cheap abstraction of a feeling we've all placed on shelves to forget. And then hope, that someday, maybe when its been gone for long enough, we can take it down, dust it off and start it back over. Change our perception of it. Rewrite some of those old memories that scare us when a girl tells us their true feelings or when we see them out with their guy friends. But there's always two sides and I can't help but wonder what I've done to love. How exactly I've treated her. If I'm responsible for her wounds, lack of credibility, her addiction... her facade.
I am.
All my life I've expected something mythical out of love. I've beaten wants, physical preferences and selfish ignorance into this term for years now and I'm starting to understand why I've never gotten close to her. She has a restraining order on me for the damage I'VE inflicted; there's no way for me to get close to hey. Especially right now with that cookie cutter ideal of a dancing, successful, quirky yet sexy dime piece I have in mind. Not going to happen. Probably more realistic to say that will NEVER happen.
I need to expect less and accept more. I need to search less and find more. I need to smoke less and eat more and really I need a damn hug. Do they sell those are target yet?
No comments:
Post a Comment