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With the frequency in which I write about love, you’d think that I’ve had some idyllic and romantic past—some grand love affair that made me
By belovedexile http://belovedexile.tumbl...


by belovedexile

With the frequency in which I write about love, you’d think that

I’ve had some idyllic and romantic past—some grand love affair that made me

believe in the beauty and power of the whole thing. But in reality, I’ve had a

lot of almosts. Like those parallel lines in math class that keep moving along right next to

each other, but never quite cross in the way we think they’re supposed to. Thinking

about those always makes me sad. Though I wonder if intersecting lines are

worse. You meet once, but then go off in opposite directions, never to cross

again. I’ve had my share of those too. I’m so emotional that even math can make

me sad. What kind of lines are infinitely touching?I used to be a cynic about all of this. Far from the

hopeless romantic I am now. I vowed to never get married, to never have a

family. I didn’t even really think love was real. I thought it was some sort of

sickness, a chemical firing in the brain that made us do crazy things. I didn’t

care what the lines were doing; they were naïve.Looking back, I can understand why I thought this. I never

had an example of what it should and could look like. “Love” was abusive, it

was crying and cheating, it was being trapped. Love was drunken slurs and cops

on the porch. It was my brother stepping between my parents to keep my mom

safe. Love was loss and fear and pain. I wanted to make it pathological. I

never wanted to be connected to something that would trap me in my home, force

me to give up the things that made me soar, and take my life away from me. Love

was jail as I saw it.I never thought that kid would fall in love three times

before she was twenty-three—each love more consuming than the next. Sometimes I

think of them in terms of elements. The first was water. Cool and deep, and

constant in the way the ocean is. I was always floating until I was drowning.

The second, fire. Blazing and passionate and almost impossible to put out, it

burned everything in its path until the flames suddenly died down. Sometimes I

swear I still see some glowing embers though. The last was earth. An

immeasurable calm, feet planted firmly on the ground. Like coming home. Can a

person be an oasis? She felt like one. Feels like one still.Maybe this sounds too metaphoric, or like I’m trying to be

profound. But metaphor is the only way my world has ever made sense to me. It’s

like I’m not from here and regular language doesn’t suffice. What do you do

when earth has become the standard and no other element ever measures up no

matter how soft and kind and perfect for you they are? It’s like everyone else

is air and you just want to put your feet on the ground again. I keep trying to

grow flowers, but they’re wilting without soil. Somehow it all made more sense when it was just the dopamine

and norepinephrine. I didn’t need the metaphors. I was my own oasis.

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