It's too easy to empty a heart... How do you cover the cracks? How do you fill it back in?
Love must have a liquid form, a chemical structure. It pours. Takes the shape of its container. Occupies all. Interacts with all. Reaches most hidden places. And when cracks appear, it drains. It dries. The container dehydrates. Some just heal instantly, probably having a sort of sewage or drainage they control. Some use patches and plugs to stop the leakage. Some just dry dead.
It's hard to preserve self esteem when you're not even worthy of one hug...
When he first arrived at the scene the thing that struck him the most was the perfect order. Everything was in its place, perfectly categorized, arranged, inventoried. Carpet and floor were stainless. Walls as white as in a mental facility. Furniture dusted and waxed. Recently, judging by its reflection. The bed was done, and bathroom was perfumed. Out on the back terrace, lied the corpse. Out of it came one arrow. He ripped it out of his chest and checked the puncture wound. He trusted his forensic officer to clarify the situation. But the answer couldn't be written in the official report: This man died out of love...
The captain read the next day that an archer inflicted wound was the cause of death. The shooter was unknown and investigation was still on going, following several leads.
People need to make sense out of love. Being out of control scares them after a while. They decide they're better off without it. Love is a beast that must be contained. A pet that must be leashed or tamed.
For what they're concerned people leave you for two reasons: you love them too much or you don't love them at all. For what you're concerned they leave you also for two reasons: they didn't love you.
Snow. Carols. Santa. Trees. Holidays. Trips. Gifts. Family. Couple. Each season we are under constant attack from those promoting coupling, love, the beauty and advantages of a relationship. And each season the suicide rate increases in this period. Love is a pagan God demanding human sacrifices. Blood. Those who have it worship it and sacrifice to it. Those who don't suffer in its absence. Wish it and welcome it. Offer themselves on its altar. For businessmen, love is money. For undertakers it's a business with repetition. No one appreciates love and sensitive holidays more than funeral homes' owners...
Love cannot be explained. If it can, it's not love. It is a feeling which originates from beyond reason. You love somebody because you just do, and due to your love that person is beautiful, smart, funny, shelter. You see all flows and love that person even more. And despite all these, when love is gone, we seek for an explanation. We need to understand the end.
Hearts, brains and genitals are muscles. They can be trained. With a sufficient amount of exercise one can last longer: at the Olympics, at work, in bed. Love is the opposite. The more you try it, the less it feels.
Love is a perfume. In time, no matter how often you use it, it wears off.
When he woke up in the morning she was awake, but pretended not to be. Kept her eyes closed and accepted his kiss. Waited till he went to the bathroom. Listened to all the liquid sounds he made. Peeing. Flushing. Washing. At the sound of the shower she sat up on the bed. The memory of the last night when their bodies screamed for one another was still present. His body screamed loud but quick. Probably in time the eager beast could be tamed. But it was not her to do the job. She gently touched her intimate parts. The thought of him curiously made her wet. Slowly rubbing her fingers she dried the last remains of his love fluids coming out of her. She intended to take a shower as well, but realized that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home as soon as possible. While she got dressed love was vaporizing, turning into thin air, going back into the circuit. Tomorrow there will be another man she will wake up with. Perhaps another woman will wait for him to finish his shower...
Love must have a liquid form, a chemical structure. It pours. Takes the shape of its container. Occupies all. Interacts with all. Reaches most hidden places. And when cracks appear, it drains. It dries. The container dehydrates. Some just heal instantly, probably having a sort of sewage or drainage they control. Some use patches and plugs to stop the leakage. Some just dry dead.
It's hard to preserve self esteem when you're not even worthy of one hug...
When he first arrived at the scene the thing that struck him the most was the perfect order. Everything was in its place, perfectly categorized, arranged, inventoried. Carpet and floor were stainless. Walls as white as in a mental facility. Furniture dusted and waxed. Recently, judging by its reflection. The bed was done, and bathroom was perfumed. Out on the back terrace, lied the corpse. Out of it came one arrow. He ripped it out of his chest and checked the puncture wound. He trusted his forensic officer to clarify the situation. But the answer couldn't be written in the official report: This man died out of love...
The captain read the next day that an archer inflicted wound was the cause of death. The shooter was unknown and investigation was still on going, following several leads.
People need to make sense out of love. Being out of control scares them after a while. They decide they're better off without it. Love is a beast that must be contained. A pet that must be leashed or tamed.
For what they're concerned people leave you for two reasons: you love them too much or you don't love them at all. For what you're concerned they leave you also for two reasons: they didn't love you.
Snow. Carols. Santa. Trees. Holidays. Trips. Gifts. Family. Couple. Each season we are under constant attack from those promoting coupling, love, the beauty and advantages of a relationship. And each season the suicide rate increases in this period. Love is a pagan God demanding human sacrifices. Blood. Those who have it worship it and sacrifice to it. Those who don't suffer in its absence. Wish it and welcome it. Offer themselves on its altar. For businessmen, love is money. For undertakers it's a business with repetition. No one appreciates love and sensitive holidays more than funeral homes' owners...
Love cannot be explained. If it can, it's not love. It is a feeling which originates from beyond reason. You love somebody because you just do, and due to your love that person is beautiful, smart, funny, shelter. You see all flows and love that person even more. And despite all these, when love is gone, we seek for an explanation. We need to understand the end.
Hearts, brains and genitals are muscles. They can be trained. With a sufficient amount of exercise one can last longer: at the Olympics, at work, in bed. Love is the opposite. The more you try it, the less it feels.
Love is a perfume. In time, no matter how often you use it, it wears off.
When he woke up in the morning she was awake, but pretended not to be. Kept her eyes closed and accepted his kiss. Waited till he went to the bathroom. Listened to all the liquid sounds he made. Peeing. Flushing. Washing. At the sound of the shower she sat up on the bed. The memory of the last night when their bodies screamed for one another was still present. His body screamed loud but quick. Probably in time the eager beast could be tamed. But it was not her to do the job. She gently touched her intimate parts. The thought of him curiously made her wet. Slowly rubbing her fingers she dried the last remains of his love fluids coming out of her. She intended to take a shower as well, but realized that the only thing she wanted to do was to go home as soon as possible. While she got dressed love was vaporizing, turning into thin air, going back into the circuit. Tomorrow there will be another man she will wake up with. Perhaps another woman will wait for him to finish his shower...
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