What is Love…Really?

Here I am, on a dark, autumn evening, at half past 9.

One thing you should know about me is.. I always write, and it’s the only thing I WANT to do. Everything else is a chore or for work or something like that. If I’m not writing I try to read, but I always get half way through and find another book to read. I guess I’ll never know the end of Frankenstein or Wuthering Heights, Dracula seems more interesting.
I was getting changed, not long ago, so I can get into bed… and for the first time, in what can only be described as a very long time, I caught my own reflection in the mirror. I looked at my eyes, all black around the edges from 8 days worth of reapplied, last minute, eye liner. Ironically I thought it was making me look more “alive” but to be honest, I couldn’t look more dead.
Honesty is a funny thing. When you’ve known someone for a long time, you expect them to tell you, ‘Yes, you look like Crap.’ But when they do, its even more hurtful coming from them and you would rather they had just forgotten it… But, if you had walked into the toilet and noticed you had something on your face, you wish they had pointed it out to save you from being embarrassed. So, honestly, what do we want? We’re confusing little creatures..
Lets call him…Percy. He will always be my first love. I don’t know by the time we all sit down and read this again, whether we will be together, or whether our love will be a faded story in the ever-growing banks of our past. But he, without a doubt, uncontrollably, lies. I’m not being modest when I say he is blind when he promises I look beautiful. I know he is blinded. He is blinded by some silly bond. A bond in us, that for now cannot be broken. But for both of us, this is new. We have never fallen in love and now we are stuck in the realms of each other. I know deep down, he is only in love with what we could be, the matter of what we are now and what we always will be. I’m his first love (and he is mine). But I worry that that is simply the thing he is in love with. Perhaps he is just a romantic.
My awful bed still creaks. It has since the day he jumped on it. Something broke then I can only assume. Ever since, I only need to pass it and it lets out a noticeable squeak. It acts as a constant reminder to me of that day. It was never going to be a special day. Nothing happened between us that I can think of now that caused the bond. It is almost as though from the start – we have been completely and utterly, imperfect for each other. He’s too tall, I can’t kiss him without looking stupid, I can barely reach him! His hands are far too big, our story doesn’t tell of romantic couples walking along, holding hands that fit together so perfectly, that it was like they were two halves of an egg shell. Even this far into a relationship it cannot go well. It doesn’t even seem possible that two people, now so experienced, should act so naive.
And now, almost as quickly as it came, the only half an hour of inspiration I get each day, will be gone. I feel… almost heartbroken at night. When I know I should fall asleep soon. I know what the darkness brings. Tears. Call me a depressed child – but I think it’s true. The moment I’m alone, and I know no-one can walk in and see my bloodshot eyes, the tears start to flood out. It is far too easy in the dark, like it is in the rain, to hide the tears of pain that come out. But why do I cry? I don’t think I know that. ‘Percy’ doesn’t. I’m fairly confident my inner subconscious doesn’t even know! It will probably be something that a scientist or doctor would put down to hormones. It is something I’d put down to emotion…

Like a candle’s flickering flame
that knows it’s about to die
like a child passing the blame
who finds it too easy to lie.

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