Love is not an illusion. It is so authentic, especially when it actually takes place. It only fools you when you try to create it, yourself, with your two own abandoned hands, that’s when you end up building something dangerous, a thing, a feeling or a mood, whatever it may be. Something surreal but ideal, and sticking to an imaginary ideal will eventually damage your rationality and consequently your capability of dealing with life, in a casual and beautifully easy manner.
Love only comes into our lives to defeat us, we think. Well, for those moments when it hurt us, that’s probably because it was never real to start with. Living a lie hurts, but what aches more is believing it and making it your own truth, a guideline according to which you’ll rule your life, and your future plans, falling fruits of your loving imagination. We assume ourselves as being solid when we are plainly the most ungrounded we’ve ever been.
Love is about all-knowing and yet, faithfully ignoring, consisting inside her life as if our own isn’t worthy of that same attention, for it isn’t our glee that brings us happiness anymore. Instead, true realization resides in the act of assuring her peace of mind, aiming to see her at her best, always. And that’s a beautiful feeling, disposing of yourself in this way is a unique and sweet accomplishment. It takes a very special woman to make a man bend like that.
Love can be threatening if it consumes us like this, if it leads us to believe not in the impossible, but instead in the improbability behind the possibility. Waiting destroys everyone, no matter how smart or thoughtful you are, you’re still a civilian, defenselessly facing grand artillery, fire intended to scorch you, mercilessly. It will turn you into a desperate man and then you’ll sink for some time, if you’re lucky, for a too long while, if you’re not. A while that dries your persona and shrinks your vital essence. You must fight that force trying to enclose you inside nothing but the happy images of her smiling face, constantly floating around your mind. The happiest memories are usually the ones capable of feeding the heaviest moments. From the minute you make a routine out of crying and longing, darkness will make you feel at ease and at home in where you don’t belong. Once you fall into that hopeless sleepy state, now turning you into a devoid existence, you’re pretty much gone. And it will be like this, at least for now, hopefully not forever.
Love causes us to take endless contradictory steps towards a destination still undefined, somewhere paradisiacal yet the roads leading there are unceasingly wet and murky, extremely displeasing but extraordinarily encouraging. Why? Because we tirelessly hope.
Love is madness, molten and made fit into a mold of understanding. Conflicting feelings, wills that mutually oppose each other, they clash so we can finally proclaim a winner, distinguish a decision, perhaps the right one. It always looks so easy to decide on love, it’s clear and clean and surely holds the promise of pleasure, never pain, but somehow we manage to lose the north, and frequently end up tasting the awful bitter side of it all.
Love is joy found in the short occasions spent in her company, that seem meaningless to everyone else, including herself, sometimes.
Love is overdosing ourselves with whatever lets us thrive, hoping the hangover doesn’t kill us the day after.