16 May 2013

Love, or Something Like It

Someone - no, not someone, that someone, him, the one I’ll never really understand and I’ll definitely never forget - he once asked me what love is. I couldn’t answer him then, mostly because I never really knew but I think I have a pretty good answer now. I can almost imagine how that conversation would go if it was to happen now. It wouldn’t be pleasant  but then hearing the truth rarely is, is it?

“Love is like me. Love is fickle, impatient and demanding. Ungrateful and petulant. Love is vain. Conceited. Arrogant.Wholly joyous and utterly melancholic. Love is selfish. Far more than you could begin to imagine, and yet love gives more of itself than you could believe. Love is graceful, clumsy, beautiful but uglier than sin. Love makes everything worthwhile, and you waste yourself while giving it everything it asks for. Love gets its claws into you and doesn’t let go until you’re desperate and dying. Love enjoys teasing you, making promises it intends to, but will never, keep. Love makes you wait and watches while you wither with a smile on it’s face. Love loves making you feel guilty for the crimes it commits against you. Love is fleeting. It will make your dreams come true and then up and disappear when you think you’re in paradise. Love is a bitch, a vile, sadistic bitch. And you will fall hard, and all the while love will taunt and twist you into something you cannot recognise. That, my dear, is what love is.”

“Is that what you really think? Is that what you’ll do to me?”

“Haven’t I already?”

“I think so.”

“I did love you once, you know, differently. Before love became just another way to get I want.”


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