As far as I can remember, I always wrote about love, even when I didn’t know exactly what love felt like. At the beginning of highschool, I guess I was just inspired by movies, books and poems, but nothing quite as good as these fantasies could come up to me in reality. I knew a lot about divorces, arguments and kisses, that’s for damn sure, but what was so fantastic about it? That’s what I was looking for; the exact reason why everyone was chasing after love so hard, craving it until they could feel full, and a little confused over it.
That was another big question, and it appeared to be so complicated to me. Why would you stick with one human being almost everyday, until you become suddenly really worried and concerned about their behaviors and thoughts and even habits? I couldn’t get it. With time, social medias made it even more frustrating, are you texting someone else, what’s that heart emoji about, who is she? Was there even one positive fucking thing about all that mess? They only made it sound like boys wanted sex, and girls wanted romance.
As I was evolving, art became a bigger part of my life. People from the Internet tought me that the human body wasn’t a taboo, and that’s how I learned how love worked on a raw and theoritical level. It was poetic, nothing to do with what I knew from my experiences.The physical aspect joined the mental one, I started to believe in souls and connexions even more than I already did as a buddhist. Sexuality implied more than just two naked people rubbing themselves on each other savagely, holding hands wasn’t only a public demonstration anymore and kissing was deeper than saliva being mixed between lips.
Later on, the theoritical gave it’s place to the practical. Even if all of these things already made sense, I became really emotional over them as I fell in love myself. It wasn’t possible for me to explain love again anymore, to write about it like it was a dumb teenager’s novel full of pathetic sentences. Words couldn’t translate the feeling anymore. Not that I ever thought about denying my first experiences in ”love” as what I thought it was at fourteen years old, but this time was the real one. There was no doubt about it, I felt it in my veins, in the beating of my heart pounding through my neck when I was watching love leaving my house without giving it a kiss, like I didn’t plan to do so (which was completely untrue.)
Today, I can only write about it the way I perceive it, the way I learned about it. I wanted to make it all come true on my blog, but didn’t know how, because I was searching for a way to make everyone understand me when I refered to love as I knew it. And I know it isn’t possible. So let me write about love, hoping that one day, you’ll also be able to write about it without anyone else to get it, because it will be your own version, your own theory.
To me, love is watching half of a movie and getting bored of it real quick because kissing is nicer. It’s going out in a snow storm because we want to eat some Kraft Dinner, but don’t have any. Love is also running under the rain, walking in a cemetary at night to talk about all kinds of stuff, eating pizza while playing video games and petting cats. Love leaves a little hole in my chest when it is sad, but doesn’t make me question my desire to stay, no matter how hard the times are. Love is making me feel comforted and watched over when it toutches my skin softly and tenderly, even if it’s just a hand on my leg in the car. Love is laying down and listening to some music, sleeping in the car, close to the highway because the show ended late and laughing over dumb shit. It’s talking about the future, the fears and the unknown without feeling so scared for once. It is also, on top of all, not being able to describe how good it feels to look in someone else’s eyes and being home. It is hard to get, hard to explain, but it’s worth believing in it.