We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death, and afraid of each other. Our age yields no great and perfect persons. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am afraid to love before and I have always wanted to be able to live without it. I am surrounded by it and I want to write all that can be told about love.
But to be able to write about it, then it should be defined. For me, do truly define something then I have to eliminate what it is not. I never could understand why it was like that for me.
Lust was something that I mistook for love before. Curiosity was an even closer version of love for me. I thought that the reason why I liked to learn new things about that person and about what we can do together, those wondrous elaborate exercises, I thought that was love. But it wasn't. It was lust and curiosity and in the end, I lost the passion and I got bored. But I didn't leave, I stayed I waited for them to leave.
That is when I learned love is not obsession and it's not contentment. At least not so much the last one and definitely the first once is not healthy. I also learned that love is not patience. It could be complacent however and let years pass pining for the wrong man. Then I learned that fate was real and that signs were bullocks. If you are not fated for a person, you don't need signs to come to you, they would hit you one after the other and you would ignore it all the time. Every single one of them.
I learned that you can't ignore reality and society when you love someone, or think yourself in-love with him or her. You can remove yourself from the group and think that you are no longer bound in the rules that they have set for themselves. But you are always influenced by that, because you are them and they are you. It's almost genetic at times.
I wanted nothing to do with love after I woke up from the illusion. I wanted to write about it someday but not during those days. I didn't want to immortalize my bitterness in poetry once again. I wanted to make people cry because they were touched by a story and not by the pain that I reminded them because of the love poem that I wrote. I got my ego bruised. What did I know about love? All I whined about was that I wasted my time on the wrong men.
Now I wonder if I have learned what love really is. I don't want to compromise who I am, be quieter, nicer and more forgiving. I don't want to give him everything without expecting a lot from him. He thinks that he has been wronged by those who loved him before, he has no idea what I went through to get to this point. He doesn't know what I had to endure to survive it all. He doesn't know because I don't think he understands humor, sarcasm and that not everything is about him. I am afraid he can't handle who I am and I would crush him and not recognize him in the end. I am afraid that the love I have for him is compromising, content and settling for less than what I wanted.
I can't tell him that in my opinion love is brutally honest and unrelentingly sarcastic. At least in my case, that is love.
In the end all that I know about love is that I am yet to understand it.
+prompt from here+
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