As a child, I’d read about epic adventures, tragic poems and love so true that it could burn cities with its power.
Solitary as I was, I thought that kind of love was some sort of obtainable superpower that— should I be deemed worthy of receiving it— would make my life whole. And in that understanding, it was obvious to me that I had to have pain, uncertainty, fear, occasional jealousy… and while those things didn’t define what love actually was (and they still don’t), I thought that was what made love beautiful. So real, so scary. Seizing your insides with full rawness.
Like Marianne Dashwood, I thought to myself: “Pathetic? To die for love? How can you say so? What could be more glorious?”, and I truly believed it. I still do.
Time went by, I grew older and started my very own ventures at loving people. I met pain up close, I felt raging jealousy take over me, I drifted away in that big ashen ocean of uncertainty and I never truly stopped being afraid. My heart hasn’t changed much, despite its (un)fortunate encounters, and I still place great value on experiencing the coarse, the profound.
But, I think, what makes love so magnificent is not the suffering, not the bruises, not the intense heart-wrenching sting inside of us. It’s our own willingness to go through that, our will to continue even when we know all those things are—and will be— involved.
It is a beautiful leap of, not faith, but awareness.
A black pit into which we dive because at the end of it, there is someone we care for.
And, in earnest stubbornness, we jump anyway.
She sits by the window, pale as the underside of a silverleaf
and stares through the glass to the memories, in ruins
the unkind promises that never were
has she ever been happy?
every day, she wonders
Day in and day out
consigning it all to oblivion
but remembering everyone
rising from her burial ground
Reminiscing about autumns now past
how she felt when smelling baked bread for the first time
how that kitten made her feel weak in new places
how every detail of life fascinated her
moved her to tears
each time, deeply and inevitably, she’d die
again and again
in a constant suicide
Such a tiny and frail little death
It is an odd thing, she mused
that despair could stun her
that pain should be for the living
for her, full of blood still
Any and all times her hopes were dashed
it was always an astonishment
Unfailingly, her heart was touched
and the woes, the hot rotted pains
those fleeting moments of bare translucency
they remind her she’s been here before
this revolution of blossom and gloom
of feelings and honest tempests
is her life
Through her open wound she is reborn
for as long as she throbs in anguish
she stops at nothing
This is how beautiful you are to me, didistarfish <3 Had you not been born, I would have drowned and withered a long time ago. Your tenderness has enabled me to feel and to love further than I ever thought possible (or healthy). Without knowing it, you have given me the best gift of all: you walk with me as we both learn how to love ourselves, thus allowing us to truly love others and to accept that we can be loved. I love you.