and then, to the madness

The Lovers - Magritte

i love this painting. my friend eric shared it with me in college one year, and a year later in new york, i got to witness it in person. it makes me think about how no matter how much you might passionately love someone, you might never really see them for who they are - or maybe they never fully reveal themselves to you - and quite similarly, you might not recognize yourself when in that love. it can, after all, be such an irrational and self-mutilating state of temporary insanity, love; a feverish and intoxicating madness spent replaying conversations, dissecting feelings, testing reactions, and waiting by the phone. and it always strikes me as odd (and yet, morbidly fascinating) that we dedicate, not just ourselves, but our art, our music, our poetry, to the art of falling into it.

i have never been in love, myself. sometimes i like to think i have, but it's never actually happened. my affections tend towards men who are so incredibly out of love with themselves that i try and love them enough to compensate. sometimes that even takes tapping into my own personal reserve where i end up hurt, and they end up much the same as when we started. it is an empty love, and it is very, very lonely.

when i was 18, i fell in love with the attention of the first man who had ever paid it to me. i was chubby, and nondescript and so filled with the want to experience something (anything), that he, offering only the tiniest of pin pricks (no pun intended), was enough to burst me. he wasn't particularly dashing. or sensitive. or considerate. but he did treat me like shit, and as such, i adored him.

it sounds funny - and i can't explain it to you until i can explain it to myself - but there was something about the pursuit of his affections that kept me so enthused, like the cliched but appropriate carrot on a stick. that's not to say that i was put off when he actually felt inclined to show interest - those were my mini successes: proof that my work had paid off. they granted me just enough time to make one victory lap around my heart, before packing up and bracing for the weather to change.

that was seven years ago now, and i'm only just beginning to properly unpack my emotional suitcase - to work towards the state of being shroudless, seek a lover of equal vulnerability, and kiss them fully on the lips. but, frustratingly, that can take repeating your mistakes until they are finally learned from; because the heart is a muscle, and muscle memory is a powerful thing. but i suppose that's where faith comes in. faith that love is worth it and that you are worthy of it.

and then, to the madness.