I Write Therefore I Am

You don’t know what love is and neither did I.  I consider myself to be a smart individual even though whenever I err, I fail to see my part in things.  But lately, rumination has led me to a point where I can finally see myself as another entity, instead of blatantly shielding myself from blame.  It was a cowardly move and only now do I realize it.

Love is a daunting thing.  Love happens and you don’t realize it.  It catches you by surprise and inundates your mind with doubts.  It transforms your cynical self into a Pollyanna and you never feel the same way about things again.  Love happens in the moment but sometimes you’re too empty headed to appreciate the moment.  We, as humans, are too flawed to appreciate the simplicity in things.  We like to complicate things and look back in regret.  Because we think it gives us an edge.  I know I’m a discursive writer and most of it doesn’t make any sense to you, the reader.  But you can feel the things I write about.

I don’t mean to be haughty but I do not think most people know what love is.  Love is when you’re both 19 and he gives you his life at the altar.  Love is when you’re having menstrual cramps and he’s warming the palm of his hand with a lighter so he can soothe the cramps with the heat from his hand.  Love is when you can spend an entire day by his side, just whispering gibberish into his ear because you know, he even understands your gibberish.  Love is when he fights all the conventions just so he can be with you.  Love is when you never notice the time pass but you’d still like to stop time.

Love is a myth and so is everything else.

We’re stuck in a box, like my good friend Stephane often says.  Stephane is a gem of a human being, I could write books about him and they would all fall short of the praise that he deserves.  Stephane talks about this box that you’re trapped within, but only the brave and the mighty can buck its oppressive energy.  And I know, it’s arrogant of me to presume that I might be able to circumvent the box’s all-imposing mechanism, but I know that it does sound very alluring to me.  Being different is alluring to me.

Being different is the only thing that’s not a myth.

Why do things like everyone else when you can do things your way?  The gist of human literature and religion is about the resilience of humankind.  And yet, we sheepishly cling to established principles because the obverse scares us shitless.  What if, just what if, we chose not to be scared? People tend to feel things a certain way because they’ve been conditioned to be that way.  But I think it’s more noble to cast that inane conditioning aside and just strive to be good to yourself and to your true nature.  Now that would be pretty resilient.

I don’t know where I’ve gained this wisdom from, but it sure isn’t mine.  I’m just writing because I have to, otherwise, my life has no meaning.