Jan 2016
What is love ideally? That feeling, the warm fuzz from the dryer swirling and stirring in your chest, or when your world goes from two dimensional to three. When you lock pupils, the most uniform part of the human, with someone else and you get the feeling that Icarus is still flying, and you feel the sun burn your face but know it will never melt your wings.
We could look at love romantically; we’re all boarding the Arc two by two, matching species, lost in hands interlocked with no room for disbelief. Once we feel the magnetic pull of our opposing match, the game is won and our perfect weather never breaks. Just keep searching for “the one”. It’s only a matter of time. The world is small and our destinies are large.
We could look at love scientifically. Love is a symptom of the inevitable disease of heartbreak. We are all warm bodies longing for animal touch. We create our own perceptions of the perfect companion, a hybrid of fantasy. But really, love is a chemical reaction in the brain, a handicap, a weakling’s way of coping with the fact we are alone. Our limber limbs trip up into pairs, carrying on the human result of isolation.
We could look at love as a tradition. It’s our duty and right to love, to match, to create. Pieces of you live on through monogamy, shards of yourself buried in divorce. Frost bitten gowns in a church as dark and bright as the center of the sun. Silver moon songs seal your fate to another, your reality shall adjust. Awaken to your chosen fate, let your legacy live on.
We can look at love as a possession. A hunt, a capture, a wrestling match. You keep working to be the best for me, because I am the best for you. Hands touch and never let go. Between living and dying, a ghost and it’s shadow. Both exist for the other, but lack substance. An apparition and a lack of light, living side by side but barely together. A flickering bulb.
Whether we learn to love or become love, it is something cultivated, circling our skulls like halos from our inner holy ghost. Dampened only when we accuse others of not performing their love correctly, we must remember that every person on earth is performing a different love.
What's left unattended ferments into hate.
We could look at love romantically; we’re all boarding the Arc two by two, matching species, lost in hands interlocked with no room for disbelief. Once we feel the magnetic pull of our opposing match, the game is won and our perfect weather never breaks. Just keep searching for “the one”. It’s only a matter of time. The world is small and our destinies are large.
We could look at love scientifically. Love is a symptom of the inevitable disease of heartbreak. We are all warm bodies longing for animal touch. We create our own perceptions of the perfect companion, a hybrid of fantasy. But really, love is a chemical reaction in the brain, a handicap, a weakling’s way of coping with the fact we are alone. Our limber limbs trip up into pairs, carrying on the human result of isolation.
We could look at love as a tradition. It’s our duty and right to love, to match, to create. Pieces of you live on through monogamy, shards of yourself buried in divorce. Frost bitten gowns in a church as dark and bright as the center of the sun. Silver moon songs seal your fate to another, your reality shall adjust. Awaken to your chosen fate, let your legacy live on.
We can look at love as a possession. A hunt, a capture, a wrestling match. You keep working to be the best for me, because I am the best for you. Hands touch and never let go. Between living and dying, a ghost and it’s shadow. Both exist for the other, but lack substance. An apparition and a lack of light, living side by side but barely together. A flickering bulb.
Whether we learn to love or become love, it is something cultivated, circling our skulls like halos from our inner holy ghost. Dampened only when we accuse others of not performing their love correctly, we must remember that every person on earth is performing a different love.
What's left unattended ferments into hate.
Love your own way
