I stay with you so you stay with me and here we are together with each other.
We’re here not because you’re the best for me, although I could claim I may be the best for you, the best of you, if it wasn’t for my grand humility. We’re here not because it feels somehow right––it really actually feels mostly wrong––but because you rather battle about me than not battle about anyone, and I rather struggle about you than not having anyone to struggle about. We are here holding hands in the dark not because your hand feels right on mine, either because my hand fits right into yours, but actually because we’re scared of not having each other’s hands to hold, not having any hands to hold, scared of not being held. And day after day, we convince our minds that we may not be exactly perfect for each other, but at least we are good enough. We live off “good enoughs”, and “as good as it gets”. We live in a safe home. We march around scattering conformism while smirking at the ones whom give into the so-called love.
Love? Which love? That love-thing they brag about, full of major intensities and blahblahblah? Leave that out to the childish ones confined to that burning hell inconsequently happy people go to––the place they’ve taught us about at the shiny temple we went to sign in for our pledge.
Let’s sit here in our throne of temperance and normalcy, sinking into quicksand land of ordinary. Let’s tell ourselves we are content for having each other no-matter-what while lying on a stagnant hammock of old wonders and abandoned yearns.
Remember the days of the great dreams? Days when we used to believe that we were to be happy; happy as those whom allow themselves to cry of hurt instead of recurrent disappointment; as those whom miss each other when they are apart, not out of habit but out of presence; happy as those whom rather die for love than spend hundred years of solitude; happy as what Happy means in that thick book of words.
Don’t be silly, Ultimate Romantic. Leave your aspirations outside and obey what love really is. Not excitement, not desire, not specialty. Love, I’ve been told, is not about compatibility, sex, satisfaction and joy; love is about companionship. It’s about partnership and being there for each other regardless how you feel––and I thought that to be called friendship.
Silly me to think that from six billion people in this planet there would be at least three or four to live what I thought love to be. Straight up illusion––you’re delusional. Love is about a kneeled down proposition, a ring, a veil, a bouquet and a white dress to represent an innocence lost long time ago. Love is about having someone to watch Fox News with, someone to nag and fight at night, someone to complain of your weight gain and point out your vices day after day over and over again. Love is there so to a have a genitalia next to you every night, not that you’d be sharing it often, either that you’ll even associate it to excitement, but it is there, and it’s yours, only yours, and that is to stay that way until you finally lay alone, not to say relieved (re-lived), on a velvet-padded wooden box.
So enough of this love shenanigans! It’s bedtime––that one with the fancy cushions just to look at and never to lie on it. Let’s orderly take them away, turn off the lights and sleep back to back with our conformism until death do us apart.
