If I were to write about love, you would come to understand that I am yet to have discovered it in that of the sense of romance.
I myself, have never experienced that essential, undying, ludicrous, romantic love that we all connect ourselves to when we stumble across it. In dire hopes that we won’t be left behind in it, that later on in life it will not hurt us but only continue to nourish and flourish upon us. We all know though, that at one point or another, that love will cause us so much pain we won’t think it possible to go on.
But that, that is not the love I would write about. Yet. As my knowledge in it goes only as far as what lust I have felt, and what happiness has come from different beings in my life that have entered it sharply, vividly, and left with an impact.
I wouldn’t necessarily call these relationships lust. Confusion is involved yes, an utter urge to have them around to complete my existence, yes. But lust some times will portray a negative outlook and that is not the image I would like to portray.
These are the words I wrote a few days ago. I thought them accurate and was content with the fact that, although I am an extremely romantic notional human, the words above described that real love has not yet entered my life.
I saved my work to come back to it at a later date. Today, searching through all my old journals that were stored away, and my two newest journal members from the past 8 months that I added to these piles, I realised that this accusation I have made about myself, is far from true.
Reading through the people I had met and the places I had seen took me back to what I felt when writing them. What I felt, what I still feel, is pure love.
What do I write about when I write about love? Who have I written about?
If I was to write about you now what would I write? How handsome you are with your quirky, shy mannerisms.
When I think of you I smile, and I think of you often. My heart stretches forward and reaches out, but you are nowhere to be found, not in the distance I would like you to be in. I cannot hold you, I cannot feel your breath on my neck, the way you breath making the little hairs on my body stick up and I bite my lips because you make me nervous, but in a good way, oh such a wonderful way.
I wonder how you are doing, if you think of me and what you think about when you do.
Do you think about the stories that are yet to unfold between us?
About the adventures of us, that has really yet to have begun.
I see us riding off into the distance on your motorbike, with San Francisco looming close behind us yet as we drive, our blood pulsating what seems right through me to you, the city that introduced us gets smaller and smaller and soon it is only a speck in the wee distance behind us, and now, we look forward to what is ahead of us.
There are nights we camp hidden in the desert, off the beaten path but not to far from the road that we will continue onto the following day. You next to me, our bodies keep us warm but its only mildly cold anyway because in these visions, when I see you, us, Summer has only just ended, and so, the warmth still lingers. Other nights, we’re in the woods, in cabins. Forest is surrounding us and it’s a little colder. Sometimes we spark a fire and other times we take hot showers to illuminate the frost that has started to surround us. I cook, and you talk to me while I do, lending a hand here and there.
Later on you read, I read… we both read our books, that take us to another place and just before I completely fall through to the realm of dreams you slowly take the book away from my hands, and you guide me to your body.
To me, writing about you is writing about happiness, fondness. How happy I was when I find myself around you. How happy I am when I think of you.
I’m not really sure what kind of love our relationship will evaluate too but I am sure it will be some kind of love, and if it ends, nothing but humble memories will captivate my head when I speak your name.
I guess that in its own way is already love.
I am no professional on the subject of love. But who is?
A lot of people say it is better to have lived and felt the pain you feel, then to not know of the subject that caused you that pain in the first place at all. I agree.
Because as hard as it is to breathe in the air every day, not knowing when I will see you next. As hard as it to accept even that my home, the only place I have EVER felt at home, is somewhere in the far distance, waiting for me to arrive once again, each time a little older, with that gleaming smile across my face, but somehow foreseeing that it will never be as soon as we both want it to be. I could never imagine not knowing about the city that stole my heart. And I shudder to think of a world where I missed out on experiencing all of earths minerals and oxygen with you.
To me, love is freedom. Love for yourself, your true self. Allowing yourself freedom. Love for those who make you feel free, and who help you in one way or another, manifest your freedom into your reality… And the love you find in a place or a time, finding that special place. That place you had been dreaming off, that allowed you to finally truly be free.
Love is that city that created me.