Approximate length of last night’s dream: 2 hours, Minutes took to forget 97% of it: 4, Minutes spent wishing I’d written it down: 4
The sky today makes me think about love. What is love? According to the dictionary, love is “a strong, warm feeling for another; a deep affection.” So does this mean love is like a hot drink, coffee or chamomile tea, on a cold day, how it heats up your insides one centimeter at a time: deep and rich and comforting? Is love like when you’ve been skiing and your nose is red and your fingertips are numb and you strip off your wet wool socks and sit by the fire so all the frigid air melts away? Is love always warm? Can it be on the slightly cool side? How deep does the affection have to be to be love? Two feet, twelve feet, five hundred feet deep? Does love have side effects? Lost friendships, a general goofy daftness when the significant other is nearby? Can one overdose on love? Can one forget how to love? Can one fall in love with falling in love? Can one fall in love without actually falling?
Pick something to love. Anything. A tree, a cloud, a person. Attach yourself to this thing, nurture it, laugh with it, kiss it, and let it know that you’ll think of it every day, every minute, every hour. It will be there in your subconscious, providing that extra boost of hope, humor, happiness.
It seems that in high school, we get too caught up in criticism; we look at only the bad, flawed things. We snicker to satisfy ourselves. We sneer. We whisper behind cupped hands. I doubt there is a person living and breathing today who can honestly say they have never plucked and scratched and picked at someone else’s pride. Today, love something you normally wouldn’t. Laugh at the traffic — how typical it is, so many people rushing to get somewhere with only thirty seconds to spare. Smile at the note taped to your desk informing you that the report you thought was due in three weeks was actually due yesterday. Know that tomorrow; you will laugh about the things that made you frustrated today. Imagine your life as a sitcom. What’s a story without a conflict? If all else fails, love yourself. Look in the mirror and imagine yourself glowing, fuzzy at the edges with love. Wink at yourself. Wave. Do the Macarena. And perhaps after doing this, you will be ready and willing to pick up a pen, a pencil, maybe the one stashed away in the dark corners of your desk drawer, steeped in woes and worries, and gently scratch out the dictionary cliché for love and write your own definition in your own handwriting that’s yours, and yours alone.
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