The lucky ones

It is not for the faint of heart to fall in love.

The dreaded nature of vulnerability leaves us subject to our biggest fears.

Suddenly, our heart rests in the hands of another.

Sometimes we even fail to really ask ourselves, "who is this “other”?"

Why do we so recklessly allow ourselves to rest our most precious posession in the wands of a stranger?

I wonder to what extent we are hopeful and to what extent we are idiots.

I remember the last time I was in love. Or rather, every time I've been in love, with fondness and contempt.

When we look back at our experiences after having some more exposure to life, and death, it is not uncommon to feel as though cringying and putting our head down might be the only way to more forward.

Was that really love for another, or was it a fruitless attempt to convince myself that love exists?

I would best describe my behavioral patterns as a twenty-something year old girl in “love” as naive or even delusional.

Cinderella really did it to me.

Some see the beauty in those feelings, I now see the codependence.

Now it's different. I'm different.

I've found love to be an elusive mistress, only around in the late evenings, surrounded by warm bedsheets and whispered voices after pleasuring one another.

I've found love to be willing and likely to leave with the first signs of sunshine streaming through the white curtains of my bedroom.

Still, once in a while, I come across a beautiful love story. The kind that speaks of love that conquered distance, or misfortune, or disease, or maybe none of those.

Sometimes the most beautiful love is the quiet kind.

The comforting type.

The one at first sight.

The one that was not a frog that needed to be kissed.

The one that lasted forever.

I used to believe that kind of love finds all of us, eventually.

Now I think it only finds the lucky ones.