I'm in love with love. Regardless of: false expectations, false starts, false endings. Regardless of: reality, conflict, disappointment. Regardless of: indifference, naivety, sex.
I love falling in love. With the wrong boys, for the wrong reasons, with wrong outcomes. Regardless. Sometimes I want so badly to believe in something that isn't there. I want so badly to believe that there is truth that love is real. So much that I quote love songs at every other opportunity. Aren't all songs love songs? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it's just a line, a sentiment, a melody. There's a love story behind every song. And maybe a love letter too, waiting to be written. Or maybe the song is the love letter. Regardless.
There is a lot of love in the world. Or maybe not. Maybe there is not enough. Maybe there is too much of the wrong sort. What sort of love is wrong, in any case? Unrequited love? Jealous love? Lustful love? Regardless.
I think I rather like love letters. Or the idea of them. Or maybe just writing them. I don't think I write enough of them--no, that's not true. I've written quite a few, in my head, or in my diary, tucked away where no one will ever read or ever know. Sometimes they are brief, fleeting love letters: hi turn around look at me smile. Let's be friends. Let's fall in love. Pronounced one minute in my head until he turns the corner and all is forgotten. Sometimes they are long and tedious. Impossible to articulate. Or too long and too easy to articulate, words and words and sentences and sentences running on forever and forever until I should have nothing more left to say. But isn't there always more to say? Maybe the hundred and one scenarios running through my head are too much to say. Maybe. Love letters are so good. They are so filled with hope and so exposed and vulnerable. Here, here is my heart, spelled out in cramped letters and paragraphs, here is my desire shimmering inside that ink smudge, on the folded corner of the stationery, in this last hopeful closing sentiment. Picking off daisy petals. Love. Not love. Love. Not love.
So why not. To writing them. Maybe about songs and stories and sharing them here. Maybe on notebook paper and napkins and fancy stationery left on benches. Maybe tucked in a mailbox, unsigned and lipstick kiss sealed. It is not all just romantic love (what is that? Does that even exist, anymore?) it is love of a moment a place and maybe waiting and hoping for a sign. Maybe writing it down will be like a wish lifted on the tip of the breeze and the rain and it will drop on any unsuspecting stranger. Or maybe just the stranger that I want.