One plain fact and truth hit me like a slap on my right cheek all of a sudden, although I would very much like to offer my left cheek as well but I don't think that it is no longer necessary. It wasn't really like a light bulb moment but it's brightness is like the same amount of light emitted by the fluorescent bulb above my head: I can never really write perfectly about love- yes, love- because love and I aren't in good terms for maybe a little longer than three years.
I have been in love, of course, since I myself is a human being and like everyone else around me, I'm capable of thinking, reasoning, defending myself, laughing, crying, and of course- feeling. But that was a long time ago, considering the fact the time runs fast, that I was actually in love with someone of my opposite sex and given that it was only brief, I daresay, and full of grief, it was still love. I was never good at handling matters that are related to love because I tend to get overrun by my emotions. What scares me right now is the idea and the "what if" feeling that I will never be in good terms with love. If this is to happen, oh by god, I hope not, I would be very sad and frustrated with myself. Tragic, really.
It would be a backlash for me, calling myself a writer of the inner sort, for lacking the ability to utter and write words and testimonies about love that were only generated from poems, pictures, songs, books, movies, and stories of the people I know of around me. What defeats my purpose as a writer, although not that good, is that I cannot dutifully finish writing about love, even with visible passion, with pleasantness or an upbeat motivation on such course of topic without being vague, redundant, and gloomy.
Right now I can feel that perplexity is creeping over me while I am pursuing my head to think and write with my trembling left hand and not to mention the tightness of my chest due to constant and heavy smoking of Marlboro. Anyway, with perplexity at hand, I am sure of the fact that I currently am not in love but just adjusting myself to like someone that I know a small detail about who happens to have the same interests as I do and as much as I can swallow, the vain proceedings of my feelings happen to be just some sort of admiration for him with the barring and borrowed line from a move- just because he likes the same bizzaro crap I do doesn't mean he's my soulmate.
Admiration, infatuation, and love are three different things, although they tend to blend and par as one in the center- an invisible sort of electric energy with crazy colors and neon lights that enables a human being to feel, do, and say silly things. They differ in levels as in comparison to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have to openly admit that I would very much like to actually finish one good and sensible piece of literature about love, all it's chains and knots, while being in love with someone, for all I have written about are woeful laments about angst, dark clouds, bitter and spiteful experiences, perceptions, and insights. The soft curls and sharp corners of my calligraphy would present an appropriate proof for all of it.
Just because I'm not good in writing about love doesn't mean that I can never will succeed in doing so. At least I know that I'm trying and maybe if I do try again, then the whole point of my piece would go in a different direction, in a different manner, and hopeful insight. Maybe I should try again, sometime soon, and remember the span of time wherein I was in love but then that would mean that I have to travel back in time and remove the white and dusty sheets covering my forgotten emotions that I wasn't able to understand before and unlock the treasure boxes containing the files of the decisions that I made with the ripeness of my mind from long ago.
No, I am not that old. I'm not even in the halfway of my life yet and I guess that is one of the reasons that I cannot write about love. Maybe love is simple and I am the one trying to confuse myself thinking that it is impossible to dice and slice like how the wrong knight with the wrong fate and heart tried to remove the Excalibur from the rock. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe I will have to give it my shot although I know for a fact that I will struggle in this project, wishfully thinking about when will love come to me and shake my hands so that we could be friends again and start over like it's New Year's day. I know it's utterly confusing and it would entail a person who knows how and what he feels to easily write about love with the exactness of words and sentences to make a lovely accolade to love.
Just because love is tricky, love is blind, love is a game, love is mysterious, love is deadly, and just because it's basis varies from one person to another, from one relationship to another, from one situation foundation to other doesn't mean that I will never fall in love again.
*char! :D
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