Forbidden Fruit
Why is it that we always want what we can’t have? What is it about the forbidden that makes it so tantalizingly sweet? And why do we yearn for the irrational, the stubborn, and the weak?
I’m finding it hard to decipher my feelings of happiness. I’m also finding it hard to stand on my own two feet. I’ve been knocked off balance by the pain I hold to be love, to my standards. What was my idea of love? And why does it have to be the way I imagined? It seems not only childish, but foolish to think that love must be held in a certain light; and I am not being cynical toward the matter. I cry and then wonder why I am crying. I remember the self-happiness and content that has embedded a place in my being so many times before. And I wonder if that is enough. I wonder why we hold such meaning- the meaning of what love can give us- in such high standards in our culture.
Love- thought to be the one thing that can make you complete, happy, and whole- the perfect image of society’s standards. The white picket fence, the brand new ford explorer, and my personal favorite; the fake family portraits smiling with such charm at you in every empty hallway. It is true that love can make you complete, but complete with yourself. Not completeness in life. It is merely another step. It is complete in the essence of self-realization; complete in the learning of mistakes and the forgiveness of simple human nature.
Love. Is. Open.
:Open to discussion, to meaning, to people; to the myriad of possibilities and definitions it approves.
And no one truly loves love, just the idea of it.
Love makes you dizzy, love makes you blind. Love is pain; it is raw, real, emotional, passionate, absolute, honest, forgiving, patient, difficult and intense. It is a dizzy sensation in the pit of your stomach, in your head, in every quivering body part. Love is not safety, nor is it practical. It is general content; compassion; enduring pain to reach the pleasure, and even more importantly, taking pleasure in the deep wounds and the bitter taste of blood. It does not allow one to think clearly- only to feel clearly- in every part of oneself, to be revived in spirit and grow in spirit. It is indescribable. It is a loss for words. Love is not man-made. Love is not longing to be someone else; it is flawed. This in itself, subconsciously, is the real reason people are attracted to love;
It is unattainable.
I’m finding it hard to decipher my feelings of happiness. I’m also finding it hard to stand on my own two feet. I’ve been knocked off balance by the pain I hold to be love, to my standards. What was my idea of love? And why does it have to be the way I imagined? It seems not only childish, but foolish to think that love must be held in a certain light; and I am not being cynical toward the matter. I cry and then wonder why I am crying. I remember the self-happiness and content that has embedded a place in my being so many times before. And I wonder if that is enough. I wonder why we hold such meaning- the meaning of what love can give us- in such high standards in our culture.
Love- thought to be the one thing that can make you complete, happy, and whole- the perfect image of society’s standards. The white picket fence, the brand new ford explorer, and my personal favorite; the fake family portraits smiling with such charm at you in every empty hallway. It is true that love can make you complete, but complete with yourself. Not completeness in life. It is merely another step. It is complete in the essence of self-realization; complete in the learning of mistakes and the forgiveness of simple human nature.
Love. Is. Open.
:Open to discussion, to meaning, to people; to the myriad of possibilities and definitions it approves.
And no one truly loves love, just the idea of it.
Love makes you dizzy, love makes you blind. Love is pain; it is raw, real, emotional, passionate, absolute, honest, forgiving, patient, difficult and intense. It is a dizzy sensation in the pit of your stomach, in your head, in every quivering body part. Love is not safety, nor is it practical. It is general content; compassion; enduring pain to reach the pleasure, and even more importantly, taking pleasure in the deep wounds and the bitter taste of blood. It does not allow one to think clearly- only to feel clearly- in every part of oneself, to be revived in spirit and grow in spirit. It is indescribable. It is a loss for words. Love is not man-made. Love is not longing to be someone else; it is flawed. This in itself, subconsciously, is the real reason people are attracted to love;
It is unattainable.