I’ve always been evasive when I write about love, if not metaphorical. It’s probably because it’s both my greatest strength and weakness. Somebody asked me one day what my strongest motivation in life was. And I came to the conclusion that it was love. It sounded so cliché at that time and I kept it to myself – because to me, people wouldn’t understand the depth of what I mean when I say that. That it didn’t mean I was in love with life. That it meant during my lowest points, it was love that saved me. Even when it was love that threatened to destroy me in the first place. That I consciously take care of my friends out of love, even when sometimes it’s easier and fairer to let go of them. That I am capable of inflicting much more pain on people who have inflicted pain on me, but I stop myself out of love. That my head and heart can sometimes be full of darkness, but I never let it out because I’m scared people will not be able to love me if they see that side of me. That I try my best to appear like the love I have in my life is enough, but the truth is I crave for a love that I might never find because I’m a complicated wreck brimming with an excess of intense feelings and emotions.
I’ve rarely prayed or wished for love, because I always assumed the universe already knew that was what I wanted the most. It felt so self-serving to have to repeat it in some form. I’ve gone through so many painful lessons in love now but even during the most heartbreaking ones, I’m always amazed that even after promising to completely shut love out of my life, it always somehow finds a way to come back. It comes back to remind me that it’s what gives my life meaning, whether that love soothes me or hurts me.