(no subject)
Ok so I was thining, for English GCSE, we have to inform, explain or describe, and I thought what if we got asked to describe what it means to be in love.... then i thought i might write it!
Inspired by Cholly
staringspace
and her situation. You may perceive it as an FF if you like, but the pairings would remain down to you.
Such an emotion comes in so many forms. It is diverse and endless; unrequited, sisterly, motherly, fatherly, friendly or brotherly, but then there’s the true kind, the real kind, the kind which no one can be sure really exists until experiencing it for oneself, if one should ever be so lucky; I assume few truly are.
It’s a feeling I have thought about, wanted, maybe even dreamt about in the solitary seclusion between sleeping and waking, but never experienced, so to describe it in the first is difficult, so I will change my persona and place myself in the shoes of another. This is what she felt, when she fell in love- and that is how I will describe it.
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The day her eyes met his, something falls into place, inexplicably.
The day his hand finds hers, there’s no going back from there.
The days his mouth covers her, she decides. This is love, this is.
She thought she’d been in love before. She thought. She thought that feeling was love. It wasn’t and it took something overwhelming to show her that. She honestly believed this feeling existed only in the eternal abyss that is her childhood imagination, blitzed by fairy tales, realms of innocent thoughts and naivety- but how wrong she was. How very wrong.
The truth is, she had never felt bout a man the way she felt about him. She loved him, absolutely and completely.
When she was with him it was like no one else existed. The rest of the world was not as happy as they were, so it was insignificant. Any surroundings dissolved. Setting wasn’t important. The fact that he was there was the most important thing in the world, curse any interference.
One day, he embraces her, and for a blissful, sun kissed moment she feels as though she’ll never be sad, scared or angry ever again. Ever. Perfection, but then he walks away, and it is hell on Earth, like her heart is strung up on a rope, and some conscienceless individual is pulling it up, dragging it through her chest and out of her mouth, then stringing it up and burning it, and she is forced to watch as it writhes, curls and obliterates into a fragile nothingness. With every step he takes the pain intensifies a hundred fold, until it is replaced by a lulling numbness which she lives with, day and night, until he embraces her once more. The high is more complete then ever. It’s blissful perfection. Again. She wonders if he feels it too. Of course he does. No need to wonder.
Every syllable that falls off his lips is a symphony, to her, and the sound of his voice is poetry, falling on her ears with comfortable, perfect rhyme and rhythm.
She lays in bed at night, restless and comforted, and her thoughts are with him. She tosses and turns, loving and hating the image of his faced emblazoned across her skull. She closes her eyes and he’s there, branded to her eyelids. How dare he be so annoying as to keep her from dreaming of him?! And when she does finally sink into solitude, he is there still. His voice, his smile, his laugh, his hair, his skin, his tongue, and, in a fraction of a second, short enough to lay forgotten with yesterdays news, long enough to remember for an eternity, the dreams become vivid. His lips against her bare skin, his scent, the sound of her name in his voice, the feel of him, just his sheer presence. He is there. He always was. And she knows he always will be, no questions asked.
Every time she turns a corner, or passes into another room, she holds her breath, a flicker of hope, anxiety, only to have it dashed. That hurts, most the time. But sometimes it equates to something, and that isn’t painful. It’s wonderful. Just wonderful. She believes its called euphoria.
They walk. Just walk, his hand slotting into hers with an odd kind of perfection. It’s the sense of completeness one feels when placing the final piece of a 5000 piece jigsaw with no preconceived image of how it should appear. Her life is the jigsaw, and he is the final piece. It’s in the way her hand fits his, her curves fit his, her lips shaped to perfectly compliment his. Then there’s the rest. It’s a feeling of completion. So much slots into place. No more questions, no more wondering, because all the answers are here, in the way they just, quite inexplicably, fit.
She pinches herself. Ow that hurts. This can’t be real? Can it? For her whole, short, endless existence she had searched for this, all the time believing she was seeking the impossible, but something, just something, made her keep looking. There were times she thought she’d found it, but was quickly corrected with a devastating blow. This love has nothing devastating about it. All the time she thinks it couldn’t possibly get any better, but then she just falls in love with him all over again.
It hits her like a ton of bricks one day, yet when it does it feels as though a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. This was it, the real thing. She was in love. In love. Wow.
It’s the kind of love she lives for, yet the kind she’d die for. The kind she would happily risk life and limb for. The kind she would stay forever for, yet the kind she’d leave any other luxuries behind for. It made her fee strong and invincible, yet weak and vulnerable all at the same time, and it’s all because of one person.
She knows it’s the kind of love that will last for eternity, because he is there. He is now; he was when she was looking. He was what she was looking for. She knew that now. She’d finished looking. She’d found the answers, in his presence- he’s still there, and she knows he always will be, because this is love, this is.
Hope you likes!