Writers enjoy capturing readers with literate and studied depictions of love; they labor over poetry and philosophy, classic novels and films, all in an attempt to paint the perfect picture of the perfect love — of how it becomes and how it is. All they ever draw are eager eyes of expectation seeking to make something real from the reflections of a curator’s piecemeal ideal. It may be pretty, but it isn’t real.
Those shining moments may happen, but love endures long after those moments become dusty photographs in a forgotten shoebox in the back of a closet. Those moments make stories happen, but they don’t make love happen. Love isn’t made of grand gestures; it’s made of quiet support that no one else would notice. Nor is love made of desperate longing; it doesn’t push or shove to jump ahead of the queue.
Love waits patiently, knowing its time will come. Love isn’t some dramatic movement meant to demonstrate what it would do. Love simply does, without expectation. Love knows that any sentence that begins with the word if is telling, not showing, and ain’t nobody got time for that.
Love doesn’t tell you what would happen if it existed, it simply exists. It’s present in a smile and a shoulder squeeze when you’re frustrated and under deadline, a warm towel and a cold beer as you’re emerging from a shower, a stupid joke whispered in your ear that makes you laugh when you were about to cry. Love is there when nothing else is, and love is always on your side — even when you fuck shit up — and love won’t even ask for anything in return, because love knows it is its own reward. There’s no quid pro quo with love; it just wants you to succeed and to be happy.
i just want to slowdance with a boy and i want him put my hair behind my ear so he can see my face better and then in the middle of the slowdance a huge disco ball comes from the ceiling and it breaks open and theres just a huge cake in there
I swear you’re on drugs, Melanie…..
wow what the hell someone laced this discoball cake with drugs