The Couleurs of L’amour
Love is just a range of colors
Love is just a range of colors
Humans can’t understand the depth of love, it spreads without warning and it never leaves
It’s a contagious addiction that ironically you’ll never want to get rid of — passion from the Red phase
Unbeknownst you learn the phases of love as you get older, starting with the instant love from your family first, the people that you instantly have to put your trust in coming into the world, feeling warm — the Orange phase
Later in life you envision who you’re going to be & you’re ready to add more to your Orange phase which means “choosing your family”, friends, that you can see at your wedding, on vacations, your baby shower, & your happiest life’s events — Optimism from the Yellow phase
The balance is established now, this is the time now you look for sacrificing all the love you’ve endured and share it with another being hopefully for the rest of your life, of course trials & tribulations but it’s the color of life — energy with the Green phase
Imagination, sensitivity & wisdom comes into play with knowing how you want to spend the rest of your life. Your love is defining who you are & no matter what is thrown your way love can see you through it - Harmony from the Blue phase
Well, this phase is what ties life & love together it’s the luxury of being lucky having the people you allow access to you peace, it’s the mystery of you don’t know where life is going to take you from here, but it’s the extravagant price we exchanged with being here — Enlightenment from the Purple phase
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
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