 Fifteen, Australian. Photography, good music, good friends, good memories. Long phone calls. Amor Vincit Omnia, ♥. |
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This Curse That I Call Love.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Love. It's a funny little thing, isn't it? It twists and it turns; it spirals and it tumbles; it climbs and it falls; it grows, and it bursts. And sometimes, it makes people. And sometimes, it breaks people.You're the metaphors I can't create to comprehend this curse that I call love.
Those are all simple half-definitions. Comparisons. Metaphors. Figures of speech. Similies. They aren't real like emotions are. Not in the same way, at the very least. We can't feel words, not in the same way we feel happy or sad or angry or calm, or like we feel love. We don't see words in the same way we see feelings.
Not in the same way. I seem to keep repeating that one. Not in the same way. It's true, though. Nothing ever really is "in the same way". Because absolutely everything, is subjective. They say that some things have clear meanings. Obvious, clear meanings. Only not really. Anything, everything, all things are misconstrued. By somebody, everybody, any body. But there's always hoping to be someone who gets confused, or takes it the wrong way. Because everybody has different morals, different beliefs, is part of a different culture or goes through different states of mind.
The way I see it: that's all love sometimes is. Subjective. Subject to your own beliefs or your own morals or your culture. It your state of mind at any certain time. And that's what I hate the most. The way things just happen. Because, at that time? It was what you wanted. And at that time, it seemed right. And you didn't think you would regret it. But you do, and you can't take it back and you wish it never happened. But there's nothing you can do about it.
Alas, thats just the way things are. Not the same. Never the same as they were. Never the way they will be. And things will never be how they are again. Savour this. Every single moment of hurt and happiness. Remember it.
For nothing this wide universe I call,
Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.
But what do you do when that love is what picks you up and takes you flying on top of the Earth, where everything is beautiful; but it's also what drags you down, crashing, to where it hurts and it kills and it stings?