A whole new world is born when pelvises hit against each other. And then, just as the second hand on the clock stops for a brief moment at each number before it moves to the next one, so does my own, plunging deep into your chambers while that second seems to be like a century of sweet passion. Then the world as we know it becomes bigger by one new consciousness. One merges into two, the singular into the plural, me into we. And then, with embraces that signify consent, all those sweet taboos assume a meaning.
If you are sleeping, I’d like you to wake up with a start. If you are walking, to trip over a completely flat surface. If you are chewing, to choke on the sweetest mouthful that goes down the wrong way. If you are feeling hot, to find yourself breaking out in a cold sweat. If you are on the verge of making a decision, to doubt it. If you feel truly happy, to call into question how long it is going to last.
No love has ever been wrong, there are only people who would call anything love. No heart remains broken for ever, there is only a heart that won’t heal. There is no such thing as two distant souls, there are just two people who have made the decision to distance themselves from each other.
For most people today Love means being loved, not being able to love. So much is expected of it and nothing is given to it in return, it is insulted, humiliated, misinterpreted to such an extent that due to all that lynch-mob atmosphere it has gone underground. Like a vagabond, it sneaks around in silence, lingers on street corners, listens to gossip about itself and rarely makes a public appearance. And, why would it, when it is, despite being the best, so badmouthed?
Please, spare me those wussy, given in teaspoons, measured by pipette, ubiquitous kinds of love that are not real love. Spare me those instant pleasures that can only blur your mind, make your cheeks blush and cause stirring in your groin. Those so-called kinds of love with an expiry date, with terms and conditions and liabilities. Those misguided priorities solely driven by egos while everything else is insignificant. Spare me half-understood definitions, theories learned by heart and incomplete anamneses on the subject of love, and all of that without a single day of practice.
There isn’t a person on this planet who doesn’t have his or her ex. Ex-relationships, ex-friendships, ex-jobs, ex-cities. The main difference between ex-people and those who will always exist in our lives is that we ourselves consciously chose all our exes and life conferred upon us people for all times. For example, we did not choose our mother, father, our name, place of birth, but our partners and friends we did for sure, consciously, with sobriety and responsibility, and that is why they have been and will always be a reflection of ourselves.
Lately people who are not in a relationship have been all singing the same song of woe. Some of them sing soprano, others sing baritone, but they are all singing the same tune. The supply is of poor quality, those available are good for nothing, they are not able to find a normal person. Nobody is beautiful enough to the strong, and nobody is strong enough to the beautiful to make them feel complete. After such complacency and a schizophrenic combination of self-confidence and self-respect and after a lot of complaining (usually dismissing it as such), they finally come to the conclusion, triumphantly, that they actually do not need to be in a relationship because they are not prepared to be accountable to anyone.
Certain things, people and acts leave a scar that we carry through our lives… a bleeding scar. They cut deep through the softest flesh of our insecurity, they smash the strongest armature of our self-confidence with a mallet, set fire to all our suspicions dormant up to that moment. Once they are done, they say they did not do it on purpose, they turn their back on you and leave. And we, hobbling, broken and burnt, step into the future dragging all that emotional baggage, which more often than not gets heavier faster than it takes us to heal, so there comes a moment when we start tripping over it.
Nowadays, when it is more important to have than to be, when your worth is measured by how much you manage to acquire, not by how much you can give, when only what is expensive is beautiful, and not what is valuable, when we take care of money, not people, real love has become elusive, imperceptible, even unimportant. It seems that it is unsustainable, unless it is sustained by credit cards, it dies of starvation unless it is fed in expensive restaurants, it comes late unless it is chauffeur-driven in luxury cars, it does not sleep peacefully unless it keeps cash hidden under the mattress.
Being in love is an acute, euphoric state of mind that is characterised by a changed perception of reality, mixed-up priorities and unfounded optimism of an individual. It is most frequently cured by banging your head against the wall, by breaking your heart and rubbing reality onto the patient’s nose. To those being in love, that is to say, to the sick, the difference between love and being in love should be explained as early as possible, to prevent the sickness from spreading like wildfire.