It's silly, but I've always wanted to fall in love. When I was in high school, I used to tell everyone that I didn't believe in love. It was probably because I'd read too much Plath and Woolf, and my 16-year-old brain couldn't process what my 86-year-old heart was feeling. I have an old heart; I have an older soul. When those first notes wafted through the air, my mother and I grimaced. 'Falling in Love' was too young and too sugary for me. It smelled sickly sweet, like cotton candy gone stale. It's disappointing debut embittered me towards love a little more.
Years later, when I finally did fall in love, it was a vast and craggy abyss. It consumed the tiny light I had within me, and I could not see the obstacles and pitfalls until I was already struggling to get out from underneath them. Sometimes, I had to give up. And in the end, I had to let go. 'Falling in Love' might be pleasant for some, but to me it felt like hell.
I need a stronger scent. I need a brighter light. I need the quiet of my own mind, and the tidiness of my own rooms. I need my books, my tea, my dried hydrangeas in milk-glass vases. I need the countless pictures, the piles of discarded jewelry on nearly every surface, the coolness of white curtains and sheets. I need the Dior and the Chanel and the Chloe and the time to make up my mind about which will set the tone for my day correctly.
Until I am ready to lose all of that, I think that I will be alright without 'Falling in Love.' I want a love that's clean and crisp and feels as lovely and perfect as silk in the sunshine. I want a love that I haven't seen or felt before. Until that love finds me, I'm not going to give it another thought. I'm not going to keep looking for it. I'm too busy enjoying all of the warmth radiating from the hearts of the beautiful people I'm so lucky to surround myself with. That's my ideal love, at least for now.