, , , , , , ,

pexels-photo-235941.jpegPerhaps I am greedy with my demands, but I do not want a Valentine’s Day love that is as flat and two-dimensional as a Hallmark card. I do not require the pretty words of others to know what love is. Love is everyday, it comes unbidden, little things, surprises wrapped like gifts when you expect nothing.

I made you a pot of coffee. I left you a towel.

I do not seek cut flowers that will soon wither and die but rather moments of silence together, puppy love, the sweetness of just holding hands, wrapped in secret memories of long dead crushes. A red balloon snatched from a car lot. A snickers bar. Your treasured dead earth worm covered in fuzz from your pocket. It’s not the gifts I seek, but the intentions of your heart when you handed them to me.

cake-pops-candies-chocolate-food-37537.jpegI do not want a box of candy, instead I wish to bite through that hard chocolate crust and reach the soft gooey center, the very truffle of your soul.

How cheap Valentine’s Day is, how unsatisfying, how it leaves you hungry and aching for something more, almost as if you wished you had never caught a glimpse of it in the first place.

This year we are gifted with the shallow, broken soul of Christian Grey and yet another empty-headed twit, not unlike Bella with all her vampire longing and childish love angst. Is this all we are as men and women? Can we not see our higher selves even in our dreams, our fiction, our fantasies?

Christian Grey is boring, as is Anastasia. The world is chock full of broken men and shattered women, completely oblivious to the nature of their own selves, acting and reacting to each other in this rather macabre dance, trying so desperately to seek some meaning in it all. But you have not because you ask not….

pexels-photo-567454.jpegPeople want so badly to believe in fairy tales, as if two pieces of brokennness and wounding can fit together and figure out how to have a happily ever after. We do not wish to have to change the nature of ourselves, but instead to change the very nature of the world around us, so abuse becomes love and poorly written dialog passes for heady conversation. Unedited drivel becomes great literature.

Gee, I sure wish I had somebody to watch over me, somebody to guide me, somebody to track my every move, somebody omnipotent, omnipresent, omniscient…

That really is a fairytale kind of love, if you read the fairy tales of old, the ones that end with the little match girl freezing to death in the snow or the red shoes chopping off her feet so her legs will stop dancing. In the real world there are a thousand Christian Greys, many Anastasias, and their story always ends in tragedy, their love consummated with a bottle of pills in a bathtub or grey matter splattered on the wall of a lonely motel somewhere.

It breaks my heart to watch people pour things into the abyss of their soul, over and over again, as if we can just dump enough stuff down there to cover up all the emptiness and longing and desire, the unbearable ache for something more. Such unpopular words these days, but seek ye first the kingdom..

pexels-photo-266958.jpegThere’s a reason these “love” stories are sold to young girls, because if you are older and have experienced the world, been blessed to have felt the nature of true love, you will accept no substitutions. You are not easily deceived by cheap imitations. You do not look at a wounded, broken men and see Prince Charming. You are not the least bit enchanted by the mesmerizing gaze of the undead. Your love isΒ  greedy, bottomless, and it demands depth and authenticity.

I do not really blame the men who seek power and control. A rather desperate act of self-defense I imagine, because the very nature of love demands you allow somebody to peer into your soul, to consume the soft nouget that resides there, to drain you of all your life energy, not unlike a vampire, drinking in all that you are. In the end you will wither and die, having given up all that you have to offer.

That’s true love for you. A rather symbiotic and parasitical thing, as ugly as intestinal worms or as beautiful as a wild orchid clinging to a bit of rotted log on the forest floor.