On the 14th day of the second month, a Valentine came along and declared that love be celebrated. It was one of convention that stressed the romantic bond shared by two, typically a man and woman in love. Honeymoon love.
And so when we think of love, it is expected that we think of the person we are in love with. Out of love, we think of those we loved who passed, the ones who got away, perhaps the ones we hurt and have been hurt by, questioning, evaluating those bonds far removed from Valentine’s.
Oh Valentine, often forgetting the grim of reality we are forced to court the imperfection of ourselves. In ourselves, we have forgotten what it means to love.
We turn our gaze to fairy tales instead, dig into buckets of ice cream, a jar of Nutella, a pack of cigarettes, a vile of poison, a fictional character out of a novel, a dream, scenes from an ecstasy pill.
We forget ourselves, where it all comes from. We wait for answers in new solutions that seem easier than solving present pain.
Through the ages, we’ve become bolder with our feats of love. We’ve gone past red roses, love notes and sacred matrimony. We’re not as scared as we used to be crossing over from Capulets to Montagues, mixing religions, climbing over war built walls, breaking the order of homo-heterogeneity and gender expectations.
But we’re still waiting, still questioning, still choking ourselves with fantastical notions of perfection instead of breathing the imperfections we cannot escape. What makes us human?
Let there be spaces in your togetherness and let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love, let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls (Kahlil Gibran).
Forever in purgatory, waiting.
Love, as it appears to strike, is a universal phenomenon that leaves no soul wandering but always wondering when the struggle will end. Even in the anticipation of orgasm and togetherness, the moments to follow fall, settle, sobering the inebriated in love, calming the high, awaiting the low,
awaiting the next high.
Love without struggle is a waiting game without conclusion.
We transcend heartaches, betrayal and abuse, exiting with lessons we swear to ourselves never to fail again. Yet,
Love isn’t a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now (Fred Rogers).
We are blind, always wanting to walk forward only to lean back.
We are circular, originating from a point of love with destination departure after hurt only to find ourselves returning once again, adjacent to our point of origin–
adjacent, never exact after navigating endless deserts in recursive isolation.
Adjacent love, because exact points in time can never be repeated.
Adjacent, because memory serves us lessons to avoid the exact love that hurt.
Adjacent, bent from those who’ve pushed us away.
Adjacent, broken, almost always never healing, almost always scars fading,
almost always leaving enough tender insides:
where it all resides waiting.
It is inevitable.
It is within you, waiting,
dying for acceptance.