Why is that?
Love can make you feel like you have found the reason for existence, like you can't wait to wake up every morning, like magic is real, as if the very act of breathing is divine.
How is it that the single most amazing amazing sensation can also crush your soul?
Love is awful.
Love will consume your soul and eat your world. Love will keep you up at night, make you cry yourself to sleep at the end of each day, and disintegrate your being.
Love will be your reason for living, and the cause of your most painful destruction. It will make you think the world is worth saving, and without a moments notice, it will show you that you would kill, die or live for it; inevitably whichever option is most painful.
Love will make you desire life more than anything, and by the same token, it will laugh in your face and make you wish you were dead.
Nobody tells you this shit when they're reading you childhood fairy-tales at bedtime.
I fucking hate love. Love is a life-wrecking cunt, and your heart is an idiot with no sense of self-preservation. Love will destroy you. It will claw your goddamned eyes out and leave you begging for more.
I have also discovered that the depth of my love can be measured proportionately by fear. Sleepless nights wondering if someone is alive, made it to their destination, the lack of a return text surely implying their unfortunate demise, the heart-wrenching sorrow and loneliness of being shut out, of knowing that one has disappointed the object of their affection....That's fucking love for me. Measured most by the terror of loss.
I fucking hate love. Nobody tells you that the feeling which makes you fly is also the one which makes you want to slit your wrists on a sunny April morning when everything around you seems normal and the world keeps on turning as if your life hasn't disintegrated.
People say follow your heart...Trust me, your heart is a goddamned fool. It will break itself into a million pieces while bashing itself against the rocky shore of desertion or destruction, Without a care for the mind and soul laid to rest in pieces beside it.
And still we search for meaning in it all. Because it matters and we need something which explains the magic, something to justify the agony.
Perhaps this all lies simply in the fact that one cannot really know one of two extremes and must experience both to truly feel and experience the depths of either? Or perhaps such conclusions are simply a way for people like me who open their eyes in the morning with little to no desire for life, wishing the good feelings of love were still more than an aching memory...
Love will give you the desire to live, and make you wish for your death. All within the mere space of a single breath.
Nobody tells you that love is simply the inevitability of a glorious tragedy.
