Love

I’ve never liked Love as it’s portrayed by Romantics.

Cliche and unrealistic, it is the epitome of deception cloaked in a rosy attire. They speak of a love at first sight and that is another thing I despise with a passion.

Most of the time the progress is swift; holding hands will quickly level up to tangled limbs.

Love shouldn’t be like that. Where is the nervousness, the jitters? Where are the sighs of longing? The pining? The chance meeting of eyes is most of the times an invitation for sinful intimacy these days; movies make humans look like they are insatiable demons running after pleasure. Love songs, at most, are all about burning desires but tepid relations.

The Love I imagine is nonexistent, it seems.

I imagine Love as reading a book. You can never fall in love on the first page at the first line. It takes time to build up. I have to make the effort to understand what I’m facing. They have to put in the effort to charm me into reading more.

And intimacy shouldn’t be defined as naked bodies pressed together under foiled sheets. Intimacy should be whispered confessions, scared skinship. Eye contact that makes you blush. Words that linger after saying Goodbye for the night.

Love these days, just like before I’m afraid, is superficial in the sense that it’s too made up. Butterflies shouldn’t be the only thing that make you think you’re in love. Love should be praying for someone else.

Romantics need to redefine their meaning of Love, I believe. Because what they think is Love is lust, infatuation. Desire and unreal.