"To love "very much" is to love poorly: one loves - that is all - it cannot be modified or completed without being nullified. It is a short word, but it contains all: it means the body, the soul, the life, the entire being. We feel it as we feel the warmth of the blood, we breathe it as we breathe the air, we carry it in ourselves as we carry our thoughts. Nothing more exists for us.
It is not a word: it is an inexpressible state indicated by four letters . . .."
Guy DeMaupassant
I want romance; nonsensical musings in the middle of the night, talking over coffee for hours over the state of the world and how it all went to hell, waking up to weird emotions, denial and all its connotations, feelings and all that unpleasantness, the paradox of indifference and passion.
I want peace of mind when I see her walking down the street, I want to feel my pulse quicken when our eyes meet, promises given and fulfilled, a language without words.
I want a girl I can give flowers to, and give candy to, and shout out my love for her from the rooftops, and I know that it's corny, and stupid, and true.
It's a freaking summer epidemic, the deadly kind. You know what it's like; emotional baggage hard-wired into the human brain, which causes you to do stupid, unspeakable things. Like flirt, and dress up, and socialize.
Thank God that feeling passes easily enough.
Its not easy being single in a city filled with lovers, let me tell you. Especially in this City, where you can fall in love (or a close approximation of it) just crossing the street.
Gah. . .
I know what brought this on, damned middle of the night SMS'es from people I'd rather never hear from again.
I am not a hopeless romantic, I'm just hopeless.
And that is a small truth.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
1st in a series of 3 articles, which I wrote way back when, which dealt with the fairer sex, and my inability to run away from them.
Post a Comment