the only thing to remember when reading about, or writing about love, it that it’s all lies. not the love, but the analysis of it, the memories of it, and it’s a disgrace to stuff it into a box and poke holes in the top and put it on display. emotions are ephemeral, little butterflies who either tickle your nose on a warm summer day or hornets who sting the soles of your feet, and often both at the same time.

the common theme in the love i used to remember is being out of control. in the beginning, the nausea, insomnia, terror, ego, tears, fear, and the relentless barrage of thoughts about... i have been known to describe the giddy, effervescent sensation that precedes love as the worst possible feeling i could ever feel, that it needs to stop and i am out of my head and my body and can’t we just get over it already…

and when it ends, when i have been brought to my knees in sheer, gutted agony, waking at 4 am to run the streets and hearing silent phone calls that never come, shut down, a walking zombie, where no comfort is to be had and pain is constant, scared that my pain is so obvious, shameful that i chose poorly, devastated, angry, obsessed…

when all i knew was anticipation and devastation, life was much simpler. it sparkled more, was more dynamic, and the pain kept me moving, running, breathless, with no time for real sleep or calm or peace. this was once my true love, the icicle through in my heart, gripping me with such intensity that it became my lover. i yearned, longed, lusted for the feeling, the emotion, so the human behind it was inconsequential.

the day came, as it must for everyone, when i left the beast dying in the street. with dirt in its mouth, i abandoned the notion of who i was, the lies i believed, the fantasy i slept with every night and the fear of being caught in the tidal waves i was dancing in. i stepped into something more than these nasty gifts; it became the love people speak of wistfully, the love we scoff at when we are young and want moremoremore of everything/without holding onto it. the kind one feels will last forever and terror grips one’s heart at the thought of losing it.