Posts tagged with "love"

The Idea of Love

While my moth­er always made it a point to stay involved in my life (to a fault), it was nev­er because she loved me. She’s not some­one who’s emo­tion­al­ly intel­li­gent enough to under­stand what love is.

She just loved the idea of a son, some­thing “nor­mal” peo­ple have.

Which is why she tries to cling to me so des­per­ate­ly, even when I try so vehe­ment­ly to avoid her. It’s the same way that some men or women only love the idea of mar­riage, instead of their spous­es. They’re rela­tion­ships based on all the wrong rea­sons.

Realizing this has made me won­der; did I ever actu­al­ly love my girl­friends, or did I just love the idea of love?

Love is a Bohemian Child

Quand je vous aimerai?
ma foi, je ne sais pas,
peut-être jamais, peut-être demain,
mais pas aujour­d’hui, c’est cer­tain.

One day, he dis­cov­ered that she loved him just as much as the day she left, and that every new man she sought for com­fort was just anoth­er attempt to replace him; he was unlike any­one she had ever met before. But there was noth­ing that could be done; the pain had left him cold and unmoved.

So enough about love, he said, for love is often fick­le and unre­quit­ed.

And it’s only being on both sides of such an idea that allows him to accept this.

Love is a Rebellious Bird

L’amour est un oiseau rebelle
que nul ne peut apprivois­er,
et c’est bien en vain qu’on l’ap­pelle,
s’il lui con­vient de refuser

Suddenly, he came upon the real­iza­tion that her beau­ty unin­ten­tion­al­ly entraps men, who are then led to their down­fall by their own mis­guid­ed ideas of love, and that he was sim­ply anoth­er one of many. Not that it mat­tered any­way; to force such things is futile.

So enough about love, he said, for love is often fick­le and unre­quit­ed.

Tu ne l’at­tends plus, il est là!

A Thousand Kisses Deep

I can gath­er all the news I need on the weath­er report.
Hey, I’ve got noth­ing to do today but smile.
Da-n-da-da-n-da-da-n-da-da and here I am
The only liv­ing boy in New York

Half of the time we’re gone but we don’t know where,
And we don’t know here.

—Simon and Garfunkle, The Only Living Boy in New York

Every day, we get caught up in our lives.

We adopt pets to give us a sense of fam­i­ly. We eat break­fast at work or in the car to save our­selves time so we can work some more. We scorn those who express emo­tion, we avoid eye con­tact with strangers on the street.

Everything we do — the food we eat, the movies we watch, the home team we cheer for, our cof­fee shop romances — they’re just try­ing to fill that hole, that gap that’s miss­ing, the only way we feel alive.

We don’t slow down, we don’t fig­ure things out. We don’t reflect and appre­ci­ate what we have.

Like straw­ber­ry cheese­cake ice cream with a thick gra­ham crack­er swirl. Like the seren­i­ty of the snow that falls around us, when heav­en decides to bless the earth.

Life gets in the way of liv­ing.

And now I real­ize just how guilty I’ve been of this. I’ve been look­ing for love, but nev­er rec­og­nized it when I found it. All I ever want­ed to do was lie in bed, look into your eyes, and go through my favourite albums with you. But I nev­er did. And now I won­der. Why can’t we just live? We can’t we just love?

Sometimes you have to stop. You can’t cap­ture every­thing. You need to throw your­self in.

A thou­sand kiss­es deep.

Mute And Muse

Assume as nec­es­sary.

Why is it so polit­i­cal­ly incor­rect to show your feel­ings? Would it be inap­pro­pri­ate to tell you that I’m in love?

That your dim­ples are like hinges that purse your lips in the most adorable way, and I want to kiss them. That I want to have you here next to me, to feel the weight of your body press­ing against mine. That I want to smell you on my fin­gers, I want to fold my sheets around you, I want to feel your curls under my hands as I lath­er and rinse.

Because I’m sick of being polite and I’m tired of pro­pri­ety.

So let’s deal with this attrac­tion. Let’s not ignore what’s between us.