To love
Is to tell the dancer
Take the stage
I will beat the drums
I will strum the banjo
I will find the music
That will make you dance
But to be loved…
Ah…
To be loved
Is to lean against the iroko
The iroko that never falls
Reality
I wonder what love is…
Sometimes, it feels like sunshine on the perfect day. I just want to bask in it. But a shadow passes and it becomes a vengeful storm; I just want to get out of it. One day, I'm flying. Another day, I'm drowning. Then, I can't have enough of it- craving and bursting with insatiable desire. Soon, I'm sick to my heart and dying to tear away. Now, a welcome delight; streaming in like dawn through an open window. Quickly, a horror- ten thousand rivers washing my life away.
Tell me- which one of these tortured, conflicting emotions is love?
I saw a girl yesterday and, I swear, my heart leaped. When she smiled, all the stars lined up in procession and bowed before me. We kissed and tears came to my eyes for my soul had floated up and pressed itself against the highest beam in heaven. I swore- forever. She swore- forever. In a moment, eternity nestled between us. I had never been so happy.
But it wasn't love. Because when I woke up in the morning I saw that her breath stank. Her right eye slanted and she snapped a lot. She wanted to know where I was all the time. It felt like wearing a tie too tight. She wanted to be held all the time. It felt like wearing a suit too small. There was pain everywhere and when I spoke my voice was a grumble or a loud rumble. She left me in the night. She said she was tired of my snoring.
Tell me- why did the sun not stay in our eyes? Why did eternity not stay on our lips? Why did this rose bloom so red then die so quickly? Is love not the feeling that never dies? No. I grew bald; she didn't anticipate that. I didn't know her waist would spread and her breasts would fall. I didn't think lines would creep across her face. I didn't guess she had moods. When all the birds were singing in the trees, she seemed like a princess- without blemish; like a five-star hotel room that was already paid for. Nobody told me she was an onerous mortgage I could never hope to finish paying off- an unfinished construction; a long term, energy guzzling project. Till I woke up in the morning and she asked me to make breakfast.
Then, she fought with my friends and she hated my mother. Did she not see them when we were rubbing noses together and giggling like two teenagers? Did she not know my brothers were the sort to show up in the middle of the night and expect to be let in? No. There were too many dazzling lights, too many strumming guitars. I heard nothing she said. She saw nothing I was. We ran towards illusions and collided with ourselves.
Is love an illusion then; an emotional blindfold that tricks you into a cruel commitment? It lets you give your heart to a mirage and wakes you up after the wedding with a violent slap. Suddenly, you realize you've been drinking sand- but, oh, it felt like fresh water before you said, “I do”. Where was my head when I was exchanging vows with a witch? Where was her head when she was touching lips with a fool? If it has all ended so badly, tell me- what was it I felt when it was beginning? Love, eh? Fickle love. It teases you into deep waters and abandons you in the middle.
Reality check
I'm sure all of that sounded quite familiar. Love is one wicked experience. After you've fed fat on a few romantic novels and watched a few movies, you go in thinking you are about to be launched up to cloud nine. “Cloud nine” turns out to be a tiny room with no windows, occupied by two people struggling to breathe.
How can something that felt so sweet at the beginning turn out to be so sour in the end? How can something that felt so natural at the beginning get to demand so much effort in the end? How can something that felt so filling at the beginning turn out to be so draining in the end? How can something turn out to be so different from what it felt like in the beginning?
The conclusion is love is left somewhere between dusk and dawn. It slipped out through the window, grew wings and flew away. Without its magic dust shading our vision, we see ourselves as we truly are- grossly inadequate, terribly irritating. It abandons us, strips the props from our beautifully constructed stage, leaving us to wallow in bare, grinding reality. It is, itself, like the wind- no telling when it will come or when it will go. So, when we commit to each other, we keep our fingers crossed, hoping that love stays to keep it sweet and beautiful.
