I've never gotten used to the idea of love. It's always made me slightly uncomfortable. Someone's with you at all times, tweny-four hours a day. They never leave you, even when you're not in their physical presence. There are many experiences like that: hate, envy, crush, indigestion. None but love, though, is this invasive. None but love reaches your core, your soul; hate could come closest, but even it must stop well far out of reach of your deepest depths, lest you go insane or die.
This isn't to say that love can't drive you insane, or kill you; it can, believe me, it can. With love, though, even the maddest feel right. There's a warmth, a justification, a spring in the step. There's a feeling akin to warm socks fresh from the dryer. It's there, under all the tortures of the unrequited, over all the bubbles of puppy, in and around all that love is, it's there.
This is what scares me, friends, this is what keeps me awake nights. To be reconstructed so quickly, so easily, at the whim of something so unqualifiable, that's scary. To know that, despite how good and right and just your love for another, or their love for you, feels, to know that, not only do you not have very much control over the situation, not only that, but you have no control at all, not even the tiniest bit.
It's not just a control issue, either; control is but a small part of it, because most who are not in control, in regards to love, wouldn't wish to be in control. But what if your love is wrong? How do you know? If it is wrong, you don't want to feel right, I know. But you are not the only one who has to deal with the ramifications of your feelings and actions. Your family, your friends, all you know can suffer form your star-crossed paths. Should your family and friends even matter in considering something this important, the love of your life (or at least this month)? The truth is, neither I nor anybody else knows. One of love's many mysteries.
That is love, though. Mystery. Intrigue. Enchantment. Love is also comfort, familiarity, routine. Love is all these things, and more, and less. Love is the rote comfort you get from knowing what she's going to say when you ask her if she wants Mexican or Chinese for dinner. Love is the delight in finding out she has a mild obsession with Balky from Perfect Strangers, too. Love is the pain of loss. Love is fleeting. Love is forever.
Love is right. I love. But I'm not comfortable with it. So can I love enough?
This isn't to say that love can't drive you insane, or kill you; it can, believe me, it can. With love, though, even the maddest feel right. There's a warmth, a justification, a spring in the step. There's a feeling akin to warm socks fresh from the dryer. It's there, under all the tortures of the unrequited, over all the bubbles of puppy, in and around all that love is, it's there.
This is what scares me, friends, this is what keeps me awake nights. To be reconstructed so quickly, so easily, at the whim of something so unqualifiable, that's scary. To know that, despite how good and right and just your love for another, or their love for you, feels, to know that, not only do you not have very much control over the situation, not only that, but you have no control at all, not even the tiniest bit.
It's not just a control issue, either; control is but a small part of it, because most who are not in control, in regards to love, wouldn't wish to be in control. But what if your love is wrong? How do you know? If it is wrong, you don't want to feel right, I know. But you are not the only one who has to deal with the ramifications of your feelings and actions. Your family, your friends, all you know can suffer form your star-crossed paths. Should your family and friends even matter in considering something this important, the love of your life (or at least this month)? The truth is, neither I nor anybody else knows. One of love's many mysteries.
That is love, though. Mystery. Intrigue. Enchantment. Love is also comfort, familiarity, routine. Love is all these things, and more, and less. Love is the rote comfort you get from knowing what she's going to say when you ask her if she wants Mexican or Chinese for dinner. Love is the delight in finding out she has a mild obsession with Balky from Perfect Strangers, too. Love is the pain of loss. Love is fleeting. Love is forever.
Love is right. I love. But I'm not comfortable with it. So can I love enough?
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-bobby