Love is Cruel
Love is cruel, as much as I'd like to sugarcoat, and there's no way around that. Whatever it is, whatever people claim it to be, love is the irrevocable nature of humans. So, it's only natural for us to react in volatile ways to the incendiary emotion of affection that govern our very lives. We want it to be like a fairy tale, perfectly illustrated by an author equally heartbroken. Dwelling in these stories bring a glimmer of hope, until the unfortunate realization that writing is penned, by us, for an audience incapable of reproducing the content we ourselves desire. For whatever reason, love captures us in ways unimaginable, forever entranced in a mindset that tells us the adoration of another person is irreplaceable. We've all heard that there are other fishes in the sea but if it were only as simple as that. Somehow, the comparison to the bland and numerous, that is the fishes of the world, is supposed to make us feel a little better about ourselves. The only reason why we love is because we see something unique in a person and the way most people choose to combat that emotion is to undermine it by categorizing it as plentiful and replaceable.
People are attracted to one another in ways that'll be forever disheartening because it turns out to be a question of what do I not have. It's ironic how the insistence of personal individuality is what gives birth to a model of beauty. We have the basic belief that the idiosyncratic person stands out the most, until everyone else wants to be just like that. The "written" bylaws of society produces a standard sought after by many but so often fails to appreciate the long forgotten soul left to dry out in the corner of an abandoned street.
It should puzzle me no longer why love is the most unjust and painful experience anyone could go through. To expect anything else is pure insanity. For once, I want to be right on the money, without a voice by myself telling me otherwise. I hate the hope that the universe teases me with and the tears that inevitably come after a long day's battle with a heart that wants none of the blood flowing through it. Happiness is fleeting, and so is love, if only I could actually say that and claim I have experienced it.
Even the minimal is hard to come by. The mockery made of a person is sadly a reflection of failure, nurtured by what the people insist on: optimism, hope, justice. So, why can't I give up on love and all the importance I used to place on it. In the end, it's all crapshoot of characteristics that amount to absolutely nothing. He's nice, handsome, and caring. She's smart, pretty, and funny. Here's another thought: the things you see are visages of a blind eye that you have. Or maybe you're right: I'm just ugly.
I'm tired of the pity and the words fed into my ears, that all will be well in the end. It doesn't matter if I deserve better or if I have ages to settle. The one thing I've realized through all this is that what other people say matter little in the grand scheme of things. If what I want is a penny and not a dollar bill, then let me have the coin. Then again, the worst part is having neither but all the credentials to show for it.
For now, the world is dark and it only gets darker. Whatever God wants, I guess will happen, including all of this. If my life is made to give up on love, then so be it, because it's better knowing than not. I've always known love was cruel, so none of this is a surprise. I think the biggest part of me trembles and cries at the reinforcement of the idea that love is simply not for me. None of it really matters anymore, I guess, so take his abominable self out for a lovely dinner.
I'll be having takeout.