(no subject)
I've looked at love from both sides now,
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions that I recall.
I really don't know love at all.
February already? Seasons keep rolling in and out before I've felt them. They have always said this happens. That Time doesn't stop for a soul. Not once. I never listened. Does anyone?
It seems that everyone in the world is falling in love. I think it's beautiful. I feel that I've lost my identity as a love cynic. When I see it, I believe so much in it. It is tangible, and breathable and so so real. So I am caught in the inbetween: the belief in love, and the conviction that nothing beautiful can ever stay. I am reminded of something Jonathan Safran Foer writes:
"If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world and we will give it heavy walls and we will furnish it with soft red interiors from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jewelers felt so that we should never hear it. Love me because love doesn't exist and I've tried everything that does."
Deep in the pit of my soul a paradox exists. And I want both parts of the whole. I believe in forever and I believe in an end. I cannot safely live without one or the other. The beating in my chest and the filling of my heart tells me that this shit is real, this deep, soul-touching, blood-warming, breath-taking love makes up the air that we breathe. And the same parts of me are a lighthouse. They warn me that beneath the surface lie jagged rocks, waiting for me to crash. They caution me to open my eyes and steer away. Without knowing, before I reach the shore I will tear my ship in two. I will drown. And I cleave to this fear like it anchors me to someplace safe. Does it?
It may be true that the only real love that exists--that can exist here--is love without condition. A love in which all the inadequacies of this world and of man can be rectified by only the love itself. A love that heals wounds a lifetime deep. A love that knows no beginning, that will never see an end. A love that is sustainable only through itself, only burns at the hand of it's own flame. A love that illuminates all that is good in another, and distinguishes the rest. It is rare, and we are lucky to ever find it. And yet, what else is there to live for? Is it not the very place which we are born from? Is it not the struggle, the desire of all men and women in the world to find it, live it, and then finally leave the Earth with nothing but it? To carry it with us in our eternity?
Too much wine, too much reading, too much feeling. The most curious thing to me is my incessant need to find definitive answers to these questions at 20 years old. The truth is that I know how incredibly lucky I am for my life. For the slippers on my feet, the sheets on my bed, the food in my pantry, the books on my shelves. For the people that consume my thoughts each moment of every day. For the love they release to me, that courses through my veins. For the will to rise each morning and be someone better than I have been.
Moons and Junes and ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real; I've looked at love that way.
But now it's just another show. And you leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.
From give and take, and still somehow
It's love's illusions that I recall.
I really don't know love at all.
February already? Seasons keep rolling in and out before I've felt them. They have always said this happens. That Time doesn't stop for a soul. Not once. I never listened. Does anyone?
It seems that everyone in the world is falling in love. I think it's beautiful. I feel that I've lost my identity as a love cynic. When I see it, I believe so much in it. It is tangible, and breathable and so so real. So I am caught in the inbetween: the belief in love, and the conviction that nothing beautiful can ever stay. I am reminded of something Jonathan Safran Foer writes:
"If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world and we will give it heavy walls and we will furnish it with soft red interiors from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jewelers felt so that we should never hear it. Love me because love doesn't exist and I've tried everything that does."
Deep in the pit of my soul a paradox exists. And I want both parts of the whole. I believe in forever and I believe in an end. I cannot safely live without one or the other. The beating in my chest and the filling of my heart tells me that this shit is real, this deep, soul-touching, blood-warming, breath-taking love makes up the air that we breathe. And the same parts of me are a lighthouse. They warn me that beneath the surface lie jagged rocks, waiting for me to crash. They caution me to open my eyes and steer away. Without knowing, before I reach the shore I will tear my ship in two. I will drown. And I cleave to this fear like it anchors me to someplace safe. Does it?
It may be true that the only real love that exists--that can exist here--is love without condition. A love in which all the inadequacies of this world and of man can be rectified by only the love itself. A love that heals wounds a lifetime deep. A love that knows no beginning, that will never see an end. A love that is sustainable only through itself, only burns at the hand of it's own flame. A love that illuminates all that is good in another, and distinguishes the rest. It is rare, and we are lucky to ever find it. And yet, what else is there to live for? Is it not the very place which we are born from? Is it not the struggle, the desire of all men and women in the world to find it, live it, and then finally leave the Earth with nothing but it? To carry it with us in our eternity?
Too much wine, too much reading, too much feeling. The most curious thing to me is my incessant need to find definitive answers to these questions at 20 years old. The truth is that I know how incredibly lucky I am for my life. For the slippers on my feet, the sheets on my bed, the food in my pantry, the books on my shelves. For the people that consume my thoughts each moment of every day. For the love they release to me, that courses through my veins. For the will to rise each morning and be someone better than I have been.
Moons and Junes and ferris wheels, the dizzy dancing that you feel
As every fairy tale comes real; I've looked at love that way.
But now it's just another show. And you leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know, don't give yourself away.