But my problem was never that I couldn’t love well enough, it was always the opposite. I would love too much. I suppose it’s strangely idealistic of me. But to love always meant to need. To not want to be alone anymore. I loved to kiss, I loved to kiss everywhere. I loved to hug and to hold ( I’m always here for free hugs and kisses ) I loved to write and be written to. I’d write to him every second of every day if i could. I’d tell him everything. About what I feel about the universe, the colour of the sky, the nails I paint, how my table creeks when I sit, how I fidget with a thing constantly when I’m sad, how much i thought of him.
It’s strange. But to love never meant to rest, it meant to keep trying. To keep working, to put all my energy into loving. I’d make a career of it, i’d call myself the best most passionate lover in the world. I’d make an industry of it if i could. All of us who loved too much could sit in a building and love. The building would begin to reek of roses and tears and laughter and paper and ink. We’d only have red and yellow lights, we’d have so many flowers and we’d have no curtains. In love, there is no hiding.
We’d leave the doors unlocked, we’d have no cubicles, we’d cook for each other and we’d clean each others’ back all the time.
I wish that loving wasn’t something looked down on, I wish to be obsessed didn’t automatically mean to be creepy, to not be ambitious, to not love yourself. It’s strange, but love is the only thing i’m good at. But the world has taught me that to love too much is something to be ashamed of. I’ve learnt that i’m supposed to keep myself distracted, as my mother says. That i’m supposed to do my internships and watch tv and pretend i don’t feel it. But i love a lot, i don’t tire of it. I’ve been hiding it a lot, but i can’t stop feeling it.
I think and feel too much. I love too much.
Why should i stop that?