You can’t write when you’re in love

Being in love is such an all encompassing feeling that everything else hardly makes any sense.  What should I write about when all I can ever think of is his mesmerizing self?  How can I let myself go and put pen to paper when all I truly want to do is lie on my back and relive all those sweet memories that a narrative prose will never render justice to?  Love is the most awe-inspiring feeling of all, a panacea that makes you relinquish all aspirations and worldly desires, all artistic inclinations-even though some artists vouch for its motivating factor-and one cannot simply clear their head, as one might when contemplating feelings to conjure up in writing.  For love is the deepest, most elusive feeling of all, and no artist will ever make me feel the things he makes me feel.

I’m not even a milquetoast Pollyanna with a weak spot for affection.  I mean sure, we all crave affection and acceptance, we all want to find ourselves ensconced in a pink-hued bubble with another person, we all need to feel that hidden satisfaction that another human being will someday love the things we love in ourselves.  But that’s all hogwash when all your life you’ve felt like it’s not worth it, when the only semblance of romantic love you’ve known originated from paeans and narratives.

But I feel like I owe it to the world to describe those feelings, to paint a picture if you will, because why not.  There’s no greater feeling known to man than that of loving life for the sake of another person.  There’s no greater satisfaction known to the living, than that of being entwined with the person they’re enamored of, oblivious to all the raging fires, the scourges of everyday life.  It’s almost a respite from this senseless non-existence, as you exist in that moment only, and that moment is all about being with him.

To ascribe love to worldly entities is ludicrous to me, why, why on earth would you relate the magical to the nonsensical?  It’s only through love that we find our purpose; our individuality comes to life when another soul is drawn to it.  Whilst everyone wrestles with their narcissistic, self-absorbed conundrums, love gives the liberated soul a meaning to plow through, to resist, to seek to exist.


Lukshana Gopaul

Lukshana is the essay writer for PLAG. You can reach her at .

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