What I Want More Than Anything

Is the world too brutal, are my insides too broken to believe I can still walk hand-in-hand with love, still experience its ferocity and fecundity every single day of my life?

I want to be in love, to exist inside of its all-encompassing embrace. I want to be overwhelmed by love more than I want success, more than I want a well-paying job or a thriving business, more than I want a little cottage by the beach, more than I want my name on a book cover.

I would leave my whole damn list of puny dreams behind to experience love in its most potent, purest form.

The big question now is what do I mean when I say love?

First of all, love is a term, no a concept, no a mystery, I will be, and want to be, fiddling with for my entire life. Not even the trusty, ol’ Webster’s dictionary definition can completely sum it up in its famous, weird, fragmented phrases, only grainy images, raw journal entries, and best guesses will suffice.

Second, we’ve all touched love or at least brushed up against its cheek, felt it with our feeble bones, but not one of us has perfected a precise explanation.

But here’s my humble attempt:

The kind of love I want more than anything is exactly like the fairytales and then some.

It’s a ravishing kind of love.

It tears you away from your zombie trance, of accepting life as-is, pulls you into a pleasure feast, and royally distracts you with delight. It invades your thoughts and wrecks havoc on your sleep. Your heart skips a beat and you bounce through your days with a smirk.

It’s a soft kind of love.

A gentle, mesmerizing voice that speaks fluent encouragement and invokes your most tender, caring self to come forward.

It’s a lingering kind of love.

It waits with irrational patience for the best parts within me to unfold and befriends my monsters in the meantime.

It’s a safe kind of love.

I don’t need to cower in a corner and stay small and unseen, or construct wrathful walls with signs that read, “keep out.” I can come home, or rather, sprint home and fly straight into its arms, wrapped in belonging and simultaneously released into freedom.

It’s a giddy kind of love.

It flirts with the eyes, still jumps at the sight of me, keeps stupid inside jokes going strong, and makes certain I’ll go to the grave with a million smile creases etched forever on my thin, wrinkled skin.

It’s a curious kind of love.

It never comes to the end of wonder in the other, it awakens and asks 3 silly and serious questions everyday. When speech ceases, we explore our bodies, exchange our breath, and find our own way to express, who is this beautiful creature in front of me?

It’s the kind of love you relish in for a needed, necessary, and sometimes naughty escape.

And at the same time you are one another’s thrilling escapade, an adventure you will say yes to without second thoughts.

It’s the kind of love you will be heartsick for when it’s missing.

And yet, the ache doesn’t cause you to sulk for days or slink back in a sleepy haze, instead you find yourself fully saturated with flower-like confidence, ready to bloom and bust out into the world with all your colors on display.

It’s the kind of love you can only be in and simultaneously give away.

You can not possess it or hoard it in some stinky, drab storage room with no windows. This love is the kind we must set free to run rampant through our ruins and our wreckage.

This is the kind of love I want more than anything.

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