I’m supposed to write about love. Because I promised myself to not shy away from writing of things I’m scared to write about. Because she told me to. Because I want to. Deep in my gut I want to. But I will admit, I don’t know how.
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Sure, I could write about my first crush, or disappointments. But I won’t. Not now, not yet. Maybe someday, after I’ve grown old, and when it’s been more than three or so years. Maybe someday, when there’s a little girl to smile and laugh at it all with me. Maybe someday. But I won’t write about that now, not yet.
I could write about how I’ve fallen in love several times. But never with a person, rather, have fallen in love with ideas of love, or with attention. It’s easy, you know, to fall in love with attention and ideas- ideas of companionship and safety. Easy to fall in love with daily attention and camaraderie. But ideas aren’t tangible and attention isn’t enough.
I could write about how my method of veneration of crushes is quiet and unassuming. How, when crushes happened, you wouldn’t guess, because I would never look his direction, never mention his name, never acknowledge his existence. My friends would say I was particularly weird. I never participated in the giddy mentioning of names, and when they would pinch and nudge each other when their respective crushes walked past, as is normal girl behavior, I would blush and be embarrassed for them.
Then I could write about the first boy to come along and change that. No, not everyone knew about him, but a select few did, and that was a big change. I looked his way, smiled like a fool, wrote journal entries about him, and experienced the butterflies and stomach flip-flops.
I could write about being the one to walk away, and how confusing and hurtful it is. Feeling insensate for saying “It’s for the best” or “It just wouldn’t be fair for either of us”, and yet knowing it’s true. Feeling uncertain, yet strangely confident. Knowing that in fiction, you’d be the bad girl who would be sorry. And maybe that’s true, but for now letting go is best.
I could write about my love of food, yes, I do believe that would be easier. Or my love of shoes, that too would be less difficult.
I could write about love, but I can’t.