Love: A Letter From A Romantic Cynic

Love. Such a simple construction for a word that can cause endless amounts of happiness as well as an endless ocean of pain. Love. Four letters that shouldn't be waved around; that shouldn't be said if doubts are present. False love destroys so much more than just the two hearts involved, but also the friendships and bridges to the complete world you built with the other. Love. Terror and anxiety come from the doubts and insecurities that love brings. You can love more than one person or believe that in the billions, someone was specially crafted to match the soul within one other person. People do crazy things when they are in love. Love makes people go to crazy lengths: moving, changing everything from hair to habits, or the people we allow in our lives. Some love lasts through the harsh strain of time; while others burn hard and fast before their fiery destruction or the agonizingly slow fizzle out into nothingness. So is love worth the risk? That toxic happiness felt in the rush of love as it slowly kills us? Should we cage love away? Protect the heart within or keep love form hurting others? "To love and to have lost is better than never loving at all." How many times must love break the heart before the heart is demolished? Trying to repair the heart requires time or other's love. The heart, inevitably, gets knocked to the ground bloody and broken. Does it fight to get back up? How many times before it isn't worth the effort? If hope feeds love over and over is it like the Olympian who refuses to stay down and finishes the race in lieu of losing? Or is it a fool, like the one Daisy hopes her daughter is in The Great Gatsby? Love is a drug. It can cause a life altering addiction that can never fully disappear no matter the detox. Once the high is over and all that's left is ash and dust, the withdrawals begin. That pain can cause sudden sense of clarity. Hindsight causes signs to show, but the cruelty of love makes the once rose tinted glass turn red like the bleeding heart. Through tear streaked glass the ceiling mocks the heart for the love it let in. The brain attacks itself. We can not describe loss, only feel it. So grab the dustpan and take the ashes of love, mix them up, and create paste to fill the cracks in the heart. The past hurt solidifies the heart to create strength as it also allows weak spots to form. If love is felt and removed, but then returns, should it be trusted? Should the heart allow the love that once destroyed it, back in? The heart uses love like the drug it is, ignoring the physicians warning. Love. Four letters: countless hours of tears, pain, and insecurities. Four letters that make the soul soar before sending it plummeting to the ground. Love.