Keeping It Real.

Isn't it ironic that despite being betrayed by love, we yearn for it? That no matter how badly you've been scalded by it, once the burn heals, you crave it once more, dream of it, quest for it? Want it twice as deeply as you had it before? So bizarre, the notion that once you've felt that white-hot feeling explode, all you want is the eruption again. The most beautiful natural disaster - a love supernova.

But you can't just want it. It has to find you. And it has to be real (sidebar - how can people who have been in love settle? I'm not talking flings. I'm talking settling down with someone they aren't in true love with. I find it completely mystifying and depressing).

Fuck. Hey Doc - I think I'm suffering from the effects of a heart attack! What's that? Heartache is real? How can you have heartache when you aren't in proper love, or have any prior health issues? I swear - there is this dull ache that won't go away. Someone call up Bill Shakespeare....I need him to text me Puck's phone number stat.

You can pretend you don't want it. That you are perfectly content without it. You can numb out. Stare at the stars, dream of far off places. Of how our universe could be a simple molecule on a tiny ant's leg, in some gargantuan stratosphere that we couldn't possibly comprehend. Inhale. Feel the blades of grass beneath you literally grow millimeter by millimeter. Laugh from the depths of your insides when the moment has you. Let sand sift through you fingers. Marvel at birds cresting through pockets of warm air. Think of yourself cresting through pockets of warm air. Feel a spring breeze envelope you like a blanket made of flowers. Go to an outdoor festival. Lose yourself in the music. The place. The people. The vibe of human honesty. Of belonging to something bigger than you. Allow the notes to float through the air, enter your ears. Find that place inside of you where you feel.....feelings. Let it soak in. Right in.

And yet the want. The wanting. It waits patiently for you. Because all of these things eventually mean nothing without something. Someone. That thing you would die for.

Don't you wish that you could just put a shell up to your ear and some far off shore would whisper which direction to go in? I sometimes do. But I guess it's the journey that counts, right? That's what those life-affirming fridge magnets say. I'm going to take their word for it.