After having this discussion with friends today, and as I sit down and write now, I still can’t fathom the whole exchange that took place. How easily words slip out of mouths wet and hungry, or full and cocky. Perhaps young people have an innate energy that fills their mouth with words they can’t comprehend the meaning of. Or older people get disillusioned with life –and love– and thus keep to themselves more.

Could be both; could be neither for all I know.

But still, how can one not see the differences between love, being in love, and just having the hots (or being lustful) for a certain someone? We are quick to jump to conclusions about any and all of the feelings described above. We are quick to condemn others of bad judgment, but we are the worst kind of judge when it comes to ourselves.

Lust for someone is rather easy to understand. It is primal, carnal and, most of all, it is like a shooting star. It is very bright and blinding, and once you spot it you become mesmerized, but its appearance does not last long. It will lift you very high, very quickly. Much like a rollercoaster, you enjoy the thrill, the adrenaline rush, but that’s about it. Yes, it will be good, it will be amazing, but there will be no strings attached; nothing will be tying you to steady ground. The expiration date is quite visible and every day that passes makes that shooting star seem less and less shiny. And when the tail of the shooting star starts fading, you pick up your underwear from the pile of clothes on the floor, and my friend, it’s time to go. Fast.

Being in love is like having a fever. Yes, you might be laughing with me, or even at me, but follow my train of thought for a bit. You still have the hots for the other person, but the suffering becomes a constant companion. Temperatures skyrocket to supernova degrees, or plummet to icy depths, depending on the day. And your body, and when it gets too high when you burn with desire, well, then things might get tricky. Illusions are a distinct possibility, what you perceive as real could be a delusional person’s daydream – and that’s the good scenario. If two people are in love with each other they at least are together in this. But the tragedy of it all is that one day you might wake up and be over with it. And the person next you might not. Pray that you’re not the one left behind. It fucking sucks being feverish alone.

What is it then that makes actual real love –not lust and not being in love– so damn special? Why does “I love you” feel so difficult to say and yet is craved by so many?

Love is dangerous because it is calm. It is very demanding, but it rarely shows it. It slowly consumes the agents of it, and yet it is mocked mercilessly for its simplicity and naivety. You can have the hots for everyone, fall in love with a select few, but really loving one takes enormous courage and a desire to consciously self-destruct.

Perhaps this is what makes love so mythical. It is always a way to show how much you’re willing to give, and how, with a calm and steady hand, you surrender your soul to another and hope that they’ll treat it with the same tenderness you intend to treat theirs.

But then again, this might be just me with my definitions.

I sincerely hope I am wrong.

But we all know I am not…

Author: Michael Poe

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