Mon amour

There is a difference between being in love and loving.

Tell me, how long can you actually “be” in something? Not long before you become claustrophobic and crave space.

But how long can you “feel” something? Forever.

I’m not in love with you. I love you.

Like two trees that go through all the seasons, summer spring winter and autumn. They grow together, blossom together. And after all the pretty flowers have fallen from their branches, they look at each other, bare and exposed and realize that they were two trees, but are now only one.

Sparks and thrills is relationships, they’re just a weak man’s invention to explain something he doesn’t fully understand.

Sparks and thrills are short lived, by definition itself.

It’s an illusion for lazy people who aren’t willing to look past the flowers into the strong trees that have borne them.

And I’ve been lazy all my life.

Not anymore though.

I realized. That there never was any spark. There was always a fire, raging and intense. And no fire can die an eventual death unless we put them out ourselves.

Sparks die a natural death, once their purpose is served. To ignite a fire, that consumes everything. Every inch of doubt, anger, guilt, hatred and pain. True, fires mellow down. But they always stoke right back up again.

And that fire is burning, overwhelming, again.