December 23, 2014 § 2 Comments
This is a letter to you, Love. I don’t know if you’re an emotion or a trait or a feeling or a disorder, but I write to you despite the ambiguity of your form. You’re not very liked, for a name so powerful. Isn’t that weird, Love?
I wonder how you feel sometimes. I wonder if you’re sadistic in the way that you untangle palms which once embodied locks or if you cry out of misery when lovers separate. I wonder if you throw arrows in the form of a flying fairy called Cupid. I wonder if someone saw you one day, and decided to call you that. Maybe you do have a form; one other than that which crawls and thaws in the midst of ourselves while we try to rest asleep, other than that which creeps when the sun sets and even during the earliest of times. A form that’s as physical as any tangible object can be; maybe even a person.
I wonder if you’ve ever met someone, Love. I heard that angels could mould themselves into humans, as homunculi would. Have you, Love? Did you ever need to embody yourself onto an observable form for someone or some… thing?
You appear in levels, and then all at once, which I also find weird, Love. So much about you is eerie, in a sense. You’re… uncomfortable. I hope this isn’t taken as an offense by you, I only find it fair that I write as honestly as I could when it’s a letter directed to you, out of everything else – or everyone else, we haven’t agreed on what you are yet.
Will you ever write to me? I wish you could speak to me, Love, instead of poking receptors in my brain. I thought I didn’t need you, you know. As uncanny as it is to admit, I can release dopamine without you, but your dopamine is different. Maybe its colour is pink. Maybe that’s why they associate you with pink and red shades, or perhaps it’s due to the colour of our blood and how they associate you with the heart. What do you have against our hearts, Love?
You both fight all the time. My stomach too, you seem to have unresolved issues with it. Is that how you flirt? You release ticklish butterflies to peep around as cameras and throw bombs at safes we thought were protected. You’re weird, Love, and not very romantic, you know. It’s a little unaccounted for, and actually palpably rude, how you’re almost never invited but attend anyway. I suggest you attend one of those posh morality classes; you’re probably rich from all of the lives you’ve broken. If money in your world were measured by oceans of tears, you must be more than a billionaire. What do they call who’s richer than a billionaire? You’d know.
I’m not as cruel as you, but you’ve taught me some horrid techniques, Love. I’m quite ashamed to admit it, but here we are. You’ve taught me to be the strong one. That’s how I’ve passed all your tests so far; that’s why happiness is as bright as it could be in my life. But I think I’m starting to fail, Love. It’s worrying me. Maybe this is why I’m writing to you. I think I need your help – wait, no, what if you ask me to sell another part of myself as you did the last time? I can’t afford to lose too many pieces of myself, I only have one self, you know. I can’t mould myself into as many forms as you do. I’m still human, need I remind you that. I’m handed this one body, and soul. I don’t know if you know, maybe that’s why you’re a little harsh on us humans. Do you do that to animals too? Are you more than one? Are you a nation of Loves? Are you types?
I have so many questions to ask you, Love, but if you’re busy as I’m sure you always are, I can reduce my inquisitiveness into one.
When will you leave me alone?