real truths and word vomit.

I sit complacently – watching unabashed at the sticky-sweet pair across the park lawn – their too-loud, high-pitched laughter echoing shrilly through the trees; drawing attention.  

Typical.

She runs away from him, and he chases her. 

This is his opportunity to show off his “strength and masculinity”, and her chance to torment the poor besotted potential love interest with the opportunity to hold her close.

I snort loudly; having seen this scene a hundred times before: cheap, old, unoriginal. I pity their pathetic ambition to have a love like a love the movies. 

You know the film(s). Guy and girl washing car, guy sprays girl, girl sprays guy, laughter filled water fight that ends with the two lying on the ground, soaking wet, gazing passionately into each other’s eyes.  Or a flirtatious food fight where the heroine’s hair always looks flawless even with pink frosting in it, and the hero’s visage wouldn’t ever appear unsightly, even by the dab of whipped cream on the tip of his nose.

The truth is nobody likes to have bits of mashed up food on their clothes and in their hair. Nobody likes being sprayed in the face with a pressurized jet of ice cold water, or trying to take off wet jeans after getting soaked. It's all fake. It isn't real. So when I see lovers attempting to re-create a story emulative to the thoughtfully scripted and repetitiously filmed to perfection anecdote, I can’t possibly help but roll my eyes, and come to the immediate prejudice that what the cat-and-mouse lovers had, isn't real or lasting.

So, I close my eyes, allowing the corners of my mind to envelop me like a cocoon, and bring to recollection of a memory of something so real; so intense and vivid, natural and new.

True love; real truth.

My belief system was simple: true love – as I myself had come to discover over a great deal of time and obsession – is not a college experiment, or a midnight hypothesis, or mouth-to-mouth ways to make a past suitor jealous. It is not merely yearning for beauty, undressing. Or simply wanting to kiss your way across their milk-flesh, or wanting with a fervent passion to taste and feel it all. It is not a flick-worthy “how I met you” story, or dry moments like staying up late under the stars, sunny picnics in the park, or long walks on the beach.

Not a single one of those things matter.

Do you hear me? 

Not a single one.  

Because you cannot put all of the building blocks of what the media brainwashes you to believe is “true love” in their places, and then expect that from those blocks will magically create a love that is endless.

The blocks are cold, lifeless, and square. 

Love is so much more than that. It takes its own shape not otherwise specified, and takes you in different ways if you let it. It is the spaces between your fingers eternally filled – never to be empty again. It is a raw boldness, shamelessness, a feeling of power in togetherness; such a force as to block out the sun, and all rational thought, ripping through your bodies as one.

I am a hopeless romantic in the worst kind of way. Because I see truths, but despise reality.

I am blind.

~C