Love
"Love like this feels desperate, like it claws at your insides, trying to break free of your heart. It's far too cramped in there for an emotion so large and wild with passion."
"That's why people make love... they are desperate to express themselves. Words fail, where actions speak far more loudly."
What do you think? What are your opinions on ( Read more... )
"That's why people make love... they are desperate to express themselves. Words fail, where actions speak far more loudly."
What do you think? What are your opinions on ( Read more... )
"Love like this feels desperate, like it claws at your insides, trying to break free of your heart. It's far too cramped in there for an emotion so large and wild with passion."
I know the love you're talking about. It's the frantic, melodramatic, overarching love of the romances, the love that turns men into lions and women into opera singers (or so the musicals would have us believe ;)) But I think that, like anger, it's a dangerous emotion. It's too raw, too unchanneled - but the difference between this love and anger is that anger is thought of as 'bad' and this love as 'noble', as 'great'.
Unchained, soul-thrumming emotion is always dangerous. Bring this love to the bed, or to the balcony where you cry out your undying adoration. But don't take it to the table with her parents, or to the girl your boyfriend cheated on you with. If you can't control this love, if it pours out of you untrammeled, then you have just as much of a problem as if you have a temper you're unable to govern.
"That's why people make love... they are desperate to express themselves. Words fail, where actions speak far more loudly."
That's one of the many reasons people make love. They make love because they're afraid, and they want reassurance in each others' arms. They make love because they're in love, and they want to find a way to bless each and every part of their partner's body. They make love because there's a demon inside of them they're unable to exorcise any other way. They make love because it's fun, and they want to laugh and tangle their feet in the sheets. And sometimes, yeah... they make love because there's no word for the thing that they would speak, just as there's no word for the caress that sets your neck to tingle, or the glance that flashes lust across a candled table.
(cont. in next comment...)
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My loves are born as a little nervous fear and affection, churning inside of me every time I speak with the object of my love. It feels like the first solo on stage every time I meet her, I'm conscious of every thing she does, even if I'd rather not be.
I can try to choose, then. Whether to let it real and become something alive, or whether it's best to let it lie, try to let it fade away. If I choose to leave it, if I can, then it lingers on, like perfume in a room, but will eventually fade.
If I choose to nurture it and let it thrive, then I try to let it out of the constrained space within my chest and let it show. Let it flow into my face as I speak with her, or into my arms as I make gestures with a little more animation than I do as I chat with my friends. Let the words out, one by one, that tell her how I feel; just as a tiny plant, I try to help it grow into something true and honest, instead of gnarled and twisted inside of me where it cannot find expression.
It flows through me, still a growing thing. Twines around my day; I hear echos of her in the songs I hear, in the voices in the street. It's not a bitter thing; it's beautiful, like christmas lights amongst an already charming line of trees.
But I've only begun to explain how it feels to fall in love, let alone how it feels once you are there. :) I think I'd better stop before I take over your poor journal. :P
While we are at it... Does love die? When your body fails, does your love live on? If the world was over, would love cease to exist without a heart to feel it?
'Love' is no more or less real than 'song' and 'dust'. It is a concept, as all words are concepts - a word can neither live or die, exist or not exist. In that they are the only handle we have on the real, words are useful, but they no more describe the truth of things than our arbitrary classification of the seas of this world into North, Pacfic, Atlantic, Dead... than those classifications describe the reality of the seas. All things simply are, and this includes 'love'. It never lived, to die.
And even if it did, without a heart to feel it or eyes to see it, what difference does it make? Maybe, somewhere in Russia, there is a tall, green pine that grows between chunks of frozen ice. But I'll never see it, never even hear of it. So the question of the pine's existance is meaningless to me. So it is with the question of love without a lover, or a tree that falls in the forest.
Yes, these things have been on my mind and I wonder how others feel about them.
Why upon your mind, J? Or is it Top Sekrit? ;)
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This post actually originated from a conversation that I had with someone, and the conversation that I had is came from that little bit of everything.
And you impress me, dear. Every time. If I wasn't in the school library, I would cartwheel. It just makes me feel so special that you take so much time out to respond so thoroughly to my journal posts, sometimes. :)
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You also have a disturbing tendancy to phrase compliments in terms of how the complimentee makes you feel, not in terms of the thing they did in order to receive your compliment. It leaves me totally unable to disclaim it with an 'Ah, well, y'know...' remark, and forces me to instead respond by grinning and feeling appreciated.
Fiend.
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