Love is So Confusingly Messy
It’s such a burden, the most terrible feeling in the world. I’m not blaming my last ex, whose name I couldn’t speak of for 3 months, for my fear of falling in love, that maybe I haven’t let myself feel anything after the last breakup — which, by the way, happened three long years ago — as I don’t want the pain, I just tried to erase it altogether because it hurts to hope. I never felt the wondrous joy of heart-race butterflies-in-your-stomach when it comes to falling in love. As far as I can remember my first puppy love during my teenage years, it was not exactly a pleasant feeling for me.
Madly, I’d be the superb-version of absolute trash, a slave to love itself. Not even my best friends have the chance to give any opinion on how drunk I look like, I already know I’m addicted — love is the strongest drug there is. I’d give out literally anything I can give. When I love, I love hard, I’d breathe for them, I’d live for them.
I would tuck my hair behind my ears. I would cook him breakfast before going to work.
I’d lost any kind of appetite, even if my favorite salmon steak is on the table. I wouldn’t lose my energy, though, ’cause I’d drink so much caffeine. Falling in love is the only time I can relate to my friends and colleagues who drink (alcohol), they need the bitter taste to brush off their thoughts, so do I, with some very sour sugarless lime juice. I’d be hungry, but I don’t want to eat. What an awful way to treat one’s body.
Oh all the maniacal efforts to stop thinking about him. I’d dance it out, pray that his dashing face would go away. I’d play video games, pray that his soft voice calling my name would fade away. I’d work overtime, pray that his vibrant aura would slip away. To no avail.
I would not be able to sleep at night; I’d lay awake thinking what would happen if I do this or that. With vivid imagination I’d wonder what he’s doing this late night, what dream would he be having, what would be on his mind — in mine, it’d be how he laughs and I hold myself from the urge of kissing that. I have no idea if oxytocin is produced when I hug my pillow while remembering his nice sweet scent, the cuddle-chemical works either way, taking over my brain, flooding it with crystal-clear memories I have about him.
I wouldn’t be able to look at his eyes. Not unless the feeling went away or he became mine. Ugh.
I’d get jealous all the damn time when he’s not mine; I got super jealous when another girl approached him with their shiny little dresses, or when I’m thinking he’s texting them to try to know them better, or when he flashes his beautiful smile towards them. Don’t get me wrong — I appreciate his love for freedom since I love my freedom, too — but knowing he’s single and mingling drives me nuts. I’d get back normal-level of jealousy when he’s . . . well . . . already mine — it’s weird, I know.
Love is black and white. Love is golden. Love is burning red. Love is fire. Love is air. Love feels like flying high. Love is somewhat the unbalance.
And then I would cry. I would cry a lot. And then again. And some more. Really, it’d be just a river of tears. There are more than enough reasons: all these are just normal flirty tease to both of us and nobody would actually catch me falling, the girls he actually has at home and heart, anticipating the rejection, the changed dynamic, the fear of losing, the delusional daydream of getting him come off of my arms, the hurtful breakup words, the unexplainable sudden heaviness that hits my chest — seriously, is that heart-attack or something? I’d tremble and ugly-cry nonstop like a baby coming out its mother’s womb. In fact, crying is the one consistent pattern during my stage of slowly falling in love.
Is it chill that you’re in my head?
