It’s important to let the love of your life no longer be the love of your life. We went three years loving each other, about a year fucking each other and then one Sunday morning saying goodbye to each other. It was really that simple. I said I love you and she said she didn’t. Something tells me though it’s not over. But something also tells me that the best cure for a shitty heart is to just let go, turn over, start again. I was only twenty three when life seemed to have begun. But, then again, I’d been saying that every day for the last how ever long I can remember past the age of awareness. You always say: okay, now I get it, now I’m going to go out and seize my life. But the haze of the internet and online pornography always seem to get in the way. Today was different though, I only spent five minutes scrolling through Facebook and then got bored and started writing this. There’s always that moment though when you realise that you’re reflectively writing and then make it obvious to the reader that you know that you’re reflectively writing and the prose gets really lost. I don’t want that though. I hope you, Reader, don’t either.
I was twenty two when I really meant the words “I love you”. It’s such an easy thing to say when you really mean them. Like the rest of the world, including the walls, the carpet and the party downstairs don’t matter anymore. Like a complete blur vortex spinning round the peripheral vision. She was feeling the complete same. She moved in my arms with a slight sense of alcoholic intoxication. And then crept her arms up my back and whispered into my neck, “I love you”, like it was the natural next breath from her tongue. It was all very surreal at the time. A wonderful memory to have. And where do you go from there? Hands holding tightly, moving, swaying bodies, ass grabbing, crotch pulsing, hearts expanding. Well we obviously went to the bed and ripped each other’s clothes off and fucked liked rabbits. But it wasn’t dirty or too quick. We made love like you’d expect to loving individuals to make love: slowly, intensely, deeply, insanely, etc etc.
We broke up yesterday and tears flew out like an ocean. Then acceptance came, as we held hands and smoked cigarettes. Then a different kind of love came. With no expectations, a simple, most natural kind of love flew out of us. And we fucked some more. And were strangely affectionate into the night. Her hands brushing past my back, occasionally leaping up to kiss my neck or cheek. And she slept over. Then the morning came and the realisation that romance is also something that eventually dies came with it. And the only thing you can do is move on and do whatever you need to do get your thoughts out onto the page. And here they are: ugly, raw, cliche and trite. I did the best I can do right now so please don’t hold me to any of your writing norms and pressures you give all writers these days. I’m not sure it’s even fair for me to ask that of you. I guess I’m kinda begging. And I realise that that’s kind of unbecoming and that I should hold my head higher than that and try to look incredibly unbreakable. As if I can just spell out some perfect rhyme right now and impress you in subtle ways that you’ve never heard before. Be all metamodern and postmodern and change the game, change how love and being unloved is written about and be new and exciting, just so I can impress you. So you can go to all your friends and be like “wow, check this guy out, his writing is totally noir and out there!”. That would be pretty cool. I’d like that. Is writing ever like that though? Aren’t we all just repeating ourselves in petty little ways? Because we’re bored and have no other ways to express ourselves? Am I really that different to Shakespeare? I mean, I know the words are in different order but is the message all that different? It all seems like pointless repetition to me.
I guess when I think about it, there are some writers I prefer to read than others. But I think the only real difference is honesty and dishonesty. I mean, I think all writers are probably trying to be honest. But the ones that seem honest, to me, are few in number. Like, the ones that aren’t trying that hard. They’re just putting thought to page and saying fuck you to the modern capabilities of editing. Because that wouldn’t be raw, etc, etc.
So I’m going to end this rambling real soon and let you get on with your day. I thought about deep philosophical pretty ways to end this and went google searching for poetic quotes about love and unlove. I found a lot of good ones but figured I should probably be mature and write my own. I think, at the end of the day, love is something that is easy and the moment it becomes an unnatural struggle, you got to let it go and swim the way it’s going. Because that’s the only thing that makes sense. And as you’re moving back to solo swimming, remember the most important lesson of history: whatever you do, don’t be another brick in the wall.