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Literature Text
I don't believe in love.
Now, when I say don't believe in love I do not try to deny its existence. Yes, love does exist. Unfortunately.
No, when I say I don't believe in love I mean I don't believe in the characteristics that are attributed to love.
Yes, love is a mighty source indeed, but it does not lend you any of its powers.
In fact, it makes you weak, much weaker than you'd ever be without it; it makes you fragile, vulnerable, dependent (or codependent at best) and at times, even broken.
People say that love is a such a beautiful thing, but where is the beauty in weakness? Where is the beauty in vulnerability? Is it hidden behind the scars that are so well concealed with fake grins? It might be so. Perhaps there is some beauty in destruction, but not in the wrecks themselves;
no, love is no beauty thing. It makes you see beauty where there is nothing but ugliness, it blinds you; it deceives you.
Is there any beauty in blindness, in incompleteness? Is there any beauty in deceit?
Broken things are somewhat melancholically pretty, and there is something optimistically fair about incomplete things at best.
But deceit? Deceit is the personification of crippled ugliness. How can something so transfigured be considered so wonderful and pleasurable?
Ah, the power of blindness is so underappreciated and underrated.
Love is not a stupendous and joyous thing. Love is bloody and gory; love is vicious and menacing, violent and hurtful, even when returned.
Especially when returned.
And yet, being the disbeliever that I am, I cannot say we are capable of living without love.
Perhaps we are weak and shallow creatures, who'd rather stare into a mask of lies and live in the darkness than admitting the painful truth and step into the burning light.
Perhaps we are all blind, and take great pleasure in it; yes, living without love is miserable, but living with love ensues even more misery, exposing us to even more pain, and yet, we all choose love and greater misery.
What a bunch of sickly, frail masochists we are.
Too weak to choose the better unknown, choosing the familiar wretchedness instead.
Or maybe it's our strength.
Now, when I say don't believe in love I do not try to deny its existence. Yes, love does exist. Unfortunately.
No, when I say I don't believe in love I mean I don't believe in the characteristics that are attributed to love.
Yes, love is a mighty source indeed, but it does not lend you any of its powers.
In fact, it makes you weak, much weaker than you'd ever be without it; it makes you fragile, vulnerable, dependent (or codependent at best) and at times, even broken.
People say that love is a such a beautiful thing, but where is the beauty in weakness? Where is the beauty in vulnerability? Is it hidden behind the scars that are so well concealed with fake grins? It might be so. Perhaps there is some beauty in destruction, but not in the wrecks themselves;
no, love is no beauty thing. It makes you see beauty where there is nothing but ugliness, it blinds you; it deceives you.
Is there any beauty in blindness, in incompleteness? Is there any beauty in deceit?
Broken things are somewhat melancholically pretty, and there is something optimistically fair about incomplete things at best.
But deceit? Deceit is the personification of crippled ugliness. How can something so transfigured be considered so wonderful and pleasurable?
Ah, the power of blindness is so underappreciated and underrated.
Love is not a stupendous and joyous thing. Love is bloody and gory; love is vicious and menacing, violent and hurtful, even when returned.
Especially when returned.
And yet, being the disbeliever that I am, I cannot say we are capable of living without love.
Perhaps we are weak and shallow creatures, who'd rather stare into a mask of lies and live in the darkness than admitting the painful truth and step into the burning light.
Perhaps we are all blind, and take great pleasure in it; yes, living without love is miserable, but living with love ensues even more misery, exposing us to even more pain, and yet, we all choose love and greater misery.
What a bunch of sickly, frail masochists we are.
Too weak to choose the better unknown, choosing the familiar wretchedness instead.
Or maybe it's our strength.
Full title: Hear hear,the cynic (or perhaps the realist) talks about love.
Just some of my personal views on the subject of love.
I apologise for the ineloquence of this,English is my third language, but I felt I really needed to get those things off of my chest.
Also,I want to apologise to my watchers for my inactivity.As some of you may know,I'm currently doing my Service at the South of my country,with no internet connection nor time/power to create anything, BUT once this is over,(August the 15th) I promise I'll make a huge comeback. Thank you for sticking up with me!*hugs*
And feel free to drop a comment/your view on the subject etc.
Just some of my personal views on the subject of love.
I apologise for the ineloquence of this,English is my third language, but I felt I really needed to get those things off of my chest.
Also,I want to apologise to my watchers for my inactivity.As some of you may know,I'm currently doing my Service at the South of my country,with no internet connection nor time/power to create anything, BUT once this is over,(August the 15th) I promise I'll make a huge comeback. Thank you for sticking up with me!*hugs*
And feel free to drop a comment/your view on the subject etc.
© 2013 - 2024 leyichka
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