Love is new for me. More specifically, real love, lived love, is new for me. I used to think that I knew love, what it meant to love another. But, at the time, I knew love in my head, a concept to toy with, like a jagged rock, wave-tumbled and smooth, an object, once found, to tuck into my pocket.
Now I’m in it, and it’s …. different. It feels lower now, sturdy, like my center of gravity has dropped. Sometimes, like a river, this love sweeps me away, steady in it’s direction. Other times it pokes holes in the mask I’ve pieced together over the years, so that slowly, the sunlight that filters through reminds me of the pleasure that comes from simple things. But there are also moments when I just want my fucking mask.
I’m learning that I cling to the bad. Or rather, to the things I react badly to. I’m learning that love is about sifting through one emotional reaction after another, until you reach a place more deeply rooted than you ever thought possible and still, love makes you choose, every day, to stay.
This love has me feeling ten types of ways in the span of two minutes. And, I know that for each bad memory, there are another ten small things that would widen into an abyss if I were to step back. This love is about the little things, the things we could do, the things we choose to do, to make life a little better.
Home Sweet Home 